Unfinished Business
by Ramos
Summary: Hermione Granger dies in a potions accident during her final year at Hogwarts. She's not thrilled when she comes back as a ghost, and really not happy at the idea of spending eternity haunting Severus Snape's classroom. This story is being reposted.
1. Default Chapter

Title: Unfinished Business

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the property of J.K. Rowling and her assorted publishers. No infringement is intended and no profit made from their use. 

Hopeless Romantic rating: Four broken hearts

&&&&&

"Hermione," hissed Neville Longbottom, "do these flowers look all right to you?"

"They're fine," she whispered back, carefully stirring their cauldron and keeping a weather eye out for the ever-lurking Professor Snape. "They're exactly like the picture in the book, aren't they?"

"Well, yes," Neville admitted, "but they just don't seem right."

"Do you really want to ask Professor Snape if you can have some different ones? You heard him tell us how hard it was to get these Knightcap blossoms."

With a shrug, Neville dropped the dried flower heads into the potion. Within seconds, the bland mess turned a translucent blue. He prodded the thick goo with the ladle, watching the iridescent surface wiggle and hoping that, just once, Severus Snape would find someone else to torture this afternoon. Alas, that was not to be today.

"Well," sneered a deep baritone voice, making both students jump. "Finished already, are we, Miss Granger? Simply had to show off once again?"

"Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir," stammered Hermione. Even now, with their final year half over, Snape continued to make their lives miserable at every opportunity.

"If you are finished, and you've done everything properly, which I doubt, then the potion should put you to sleep within a few moments. Which of you will be testing this concoction?"

"I will," Hermione said firmly, before Snape could terrify Neville any further. She scooped up a bit of the blue mixture, took a deep breath, and at the last moment dragged the lab stool under her before taking a sip of the potion. The last thing she saw was Snape's black eyes before a dark wave of unconsciousness swept over her.

"Yes, fine, it works," Snape snapped as Hermione slumped onto the worktable, the ladle clattering to the floor. He peered into the cauldron. "I'm deducting five points, however, as the color is off. It should be a midnight blue, and this is most definitely a navy blue. Now wake your partner and clean up."

"Yes, sir," Neville breathed. He reached out one hand and shook Hermione's shoulder. When she failed to rouse, he shook her again, a bit harder. "Hermione. Wake up."

"Can you not even wake your classmate competently, Mr. Longbottom?" Professor Snape demanded acidly. His long fingers wrapped around Hermione's upper arm and shook her roughly. "Wake up, Miss Granger!"

Instead of waking, Hermione Granger lurched backwards, Snape's grip on her arm the only thing stopping her from pitching head-first to the floor.

Not that it would have mattered, in the long run.

&&&&&

"What do you mean, I'm dead? How can I be dead?" Hermione placed her hands on her hips and tapped one foot in irritation. It wasn't the same, though, since her incorporeal foot made no noise on impact.

The Gray Lady sighed in gentle exasperation. "We've told you several times now. Neville Longbottom's last potion poisoned you."

"Neville's last potion? Did he die, too?"

"No," answered the Ravenclaw ghost. "Professor Snape ordered all your classmates to leave their stations and sealed the classroom when he could not revive you."

"So it wasn't Neville's last potion, was it?" Hermione pounced on the inconsistency. "He'll be making more potions." The Gray Lady sighed once more.

"It's always like this, in the beginning," volunteered Sir Nicholas to the Lady. "The newly deceased have a bit of difficulty adjusting at first, but they soon get accustomed to things."

"Deceased?" Hermione fumed. "I haven't even sat the NEWTS yet! How can I be dead?"

"As we keep telling you, Hermione - may I call you Hermione? - you were poisoned. Accidentally, of course, but still, you can no longer be counted among the living."

"You're one of us, now," Sir Nicholas announced cheerfully. "It will be so nice, having a new ghost in the castle. We haven't had anyone new since Moaning Myrtle joined our little family."

"I don't WANT to be a ghost," Hermione told them. "I have things to do! I haven't graduated yet - not to mention Voldemort's still racketing about."

"You'll find those things no longer as important to you as they once were," the Gray Lady attempted to sooth her. "After all, those are the concerns of the living."

"But I'm still a virgin!" shouted Hermione. That was when she learned that ghosts could blush; although the Gray Lady looked approving, Sir Nicholas' cheeks turned an odd shade of silvery gray.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione turned her back on the friendly pair of ghosts and began walking through the deserted halls. It was awfully late, she realized, taking in the moonlight shining through the tall, narrow windows. She wasn't entirely sure where she was in the castle, but she was definitely at Hogwarts. A vague memory of drifting up and down these corridors came to her, but was not in the least helpful.

Wandering one corridor after another, she eventually found a flight of stairs leading down, then another. Soon she found herself in familiar territory, in the wide corridor before the Great Hall.

"You can walk through the walls now, you know," chirped a friendly voice.

Hermione jumped and let out a shriek.

Sir Nicholas looked slightly hurt. "Really, Miss Granger. I was only trying to be of service."

"Sorry, Sir Nicholas. You startled me." She frowned at the floor when she realized her sensible oxford shoes were several inches from the flagstones and she was in fact floating in mid-air, but with a bit of concentration managed to float down to stand on the solid surface once more.

"Well, you're one of us ghosts now, dear lady. You get to startle others. One of the perks of being life-impaired."

"Wonderful," she muttered thinly. "What I'd really like, though, are some answers. The last thing I remember is Potions class. I'm going to start there, and see what I can find out."

"An excellent idea, Miss Granger. After all, the sooner you adjust to your new condition, the better you'll feel. Do call on me if I can be of any help!" Sir Nicholas fiddled with his lop-sided ruff and beamed at her.

Hermione managed a tight smile and walked away, thinking unkind thoughts about what the gentleman ghost behind her might adjust.

The stairs leading down to the dungeons were pitch black due the lateness of the hour, but Hermione had no trouble seeing. As a matter of fact, now that she thought about it, she wasn't worried about tripping, or hungry, or tired, or anything else. Irritated, perhaps, but certainly not worried.

Outside the potions classroom, Hermione paused to knock, only to catch sight of her pale, translucent fist. She inspected both hands, spread out her fingers, but they looked much the same as always other than the fact that she could see through them. The sleeve of her black robe had a stain on it, from where Ron had spilled gravy on it at lunch. The little pin proclaiming her Head Girl was still slightly crooked, as she'd been in a bit of a rush when she'd dressed on her last morning. Her uniform, when she gave it a once-over, was passable though one sock was trying to fall down. How could a ghost sock lose its elastic? Shrugging mentally, Hermione raised her fist once more to knock.

Her fist went through the wood. "Oh. Right," she told herself, and taking an insubstantial breath, closed her eyes and plunged through the door.

Gingerly opening them again on the other side, she let out a sigh of relief. The classroom was of course empty, but a light shone through the door to one side which led to the Potions Professor's office. As she approached, she could see Severus Snape sitting at his desk, marking papers. His black hair hung in strings against his face, and his craggy, angular face looked even more forbidding than usual in the candlelight.

Since she could not knock, Hermione cleared her throat. "Professor Snape?"

"It is late, Miss Granger, and well past curfew. I trust you have an excellent reason--" he broke off suddenly. "Miss Granger?" he questioned, his baritone voice suddenly rising into the tenor range. In his surprise, he knocked over the inkwell.

With a muffled oath he righted the small silver vessel and held it down, as though it might get up and run across his desk. "Miss Granger," he said again, his voice once more under control. "This is something of an unexpected development." He lifted his fingers and regarded the ink dripping off them with some distaste.

"No kidding," she replied, somewhat exasperated. "Imagine my surprise."

A heavy-lidded expression from Snape failed to quell her. "I was hoping, sir, that you might tell me what happened to me. How long have I been dead? What happened?"

"Ah," he said unhelpfully, then indicated the wooden chair opposite his desk with a wave of his ink-stained hand. "Please. Have a seat."

Hermione approached the wooden chair with some trepidation, but managed to sit on the chair rather than pass through it. She smiled in relief and turned her attention to the Potions Master, who was wiping his fingers with a white handkerchief.

"To answer you first question, Miss Granger, you died just over a week ago. On Friday. You and Neville Longbottom were working on a potion."

"The Nighttime Knockout Drops," Hermione supplied, her brow furrowed as the memory returned. "But we did that right!" she protested.

"Yes, you did," Snape admitted reluctantly. "However. Instead of falling asleep, you died. Almost instantly, in fact. Following a suggestion from Mr. Longbottom, I had Professor Sprout examine the Knightcap blossoms distributed to the class. As it turns out, the plants were infected with a parasite of some sort."

He paused, and swallowed heavily. "In fact, Miss Granger, your classmates probably owe their lives to the fact that you finished and tested your potion first. Had you all tested the potions at the same time, the entire class might have died within minutes."

"Oh," Hermione answered, pleased that her class hadn't been wiped out en masse, but understandably less than thrilled at her own demise. "Well. I hope you gave your supplier what for," she finished with some asperity.

"You might say that," he replied with deceptive mildness. "I believe he has plans to endow a scholarship in your name."

"Oh, Lord!" she exploded, as she remembered. "What about my parents? And Harry, and Ron? They must be frantic!"

"Your parents were quite distressed," Snape told her. "They retrieved your body after the memorial service on Monday, and your funeral was yesterday afternoon. Your friends attended, as did many of the staff."

"You went to my funeral?" she asked, surprised.

He looked slightly embarrassed. "You died in my classroom, Miss Granger. It was only proper I appear at your burial."

"How are Harry and Ron?" she questioned, not entirely sure the man opposite her would care enough to have an answer. "I can't imagine how upset they must be."

"They are - coping, I believe."

"I ought to go see them," Hermione mused.

"It is very late, Miss Granger," Snape pointed out. "Perhaps you should wait until morning."

"Oh. I suppose so." Hermione tilted her head to one side, considering. "Why are you being so nice?" she questioned. "You're usually much nastier." The moment the words came out, she wished she could retract them, at least until she found out if Gryffindor could lose points for the actions of their ghosts.

"You are dead, Miss Granger, and it is due only to your actions, not mine, that your entire class is not dead as well. Surely you can understand my forbearance under such circumstances?" Belying his mild words, Snape's testy demeanor began to reassert itself.

"I suppose," she allowed.

"Good. Now. Be off with you. I've things to do, and they don't include letting you waste any more of my time."

Hermione wasn't surprised by Snape's sudden reversion to type; she was somewhat astonished that he'd bothered to answer her questions at all. She rose off the chair and paid no attention to the fact that her feet were several inches off the floor.

"Thank you, sir. I hope I haven't disturbed you too much."

He did not dignify that comment with a response, and Hermione left his office, plunging through the outer door with only a minor hesitation. And then paused, outside, wondering what to do with herself.

She occupied the remaining hours of the night and early morning exploring the dungeons, sticking her hand and then her head through the walls at random intervals, occasionally finding a storeroom or another corridor. The irony of having unobstructed access to Snape's potions stores occurred to Hermione, now that she could do nothing with them. By the time she had worked up the nerve to plunge blindly through the walls, rays of sunshine began filtering through the small windows in what was presumably a Slytherin dorm, judging by the green and silver hangings around the narrow beds.

Several teachers and students were already roaming the halls, and Hermione wove her way between them as she raced to the Gryffindor tower. It was considered rude for a human to walk through a ghost, and so she supposed it must also be the other way as well. She couldn't remember a ghost going through her when she was alive, but she hadn't ever paid attention to them. Now, she wished she had.

The Fat Lady had only time to draw a surprised breath as Hermione plunged through the painting and the entrance hole. Several Gryffindors were in the common room, but the students were used to ghosts wandering the castle. No one looked up as she streaked by, and therefore did not realize their former Head Girl was now one.

The seventh-year boys' dorm was at the top of the stairs. Hermione didn't bother attempting to knock, but simply popped through, whereupon Seamus Finnegan gave out a rather girly shriek at the sight of her and clutched his robes over his y-fronts.

"Harry and Ron aren't here?" she asked, looking around the empty dorm.

"Practice," Seamus gasped after a moment, pointing out toward the Quidditch pitch, then making another convulsive grab towards the sliding robe.

"Don't worry, Seamus," Hermione told him. "I wasn't interested last year, and I'm certainly not interested now." She faded back through the wooden door before the astonished Seamus could formulate an answer.

The Quidditch pitch was on the west side of the school, and the castle's massive structure all but blotted out the light of the rising sun. Hermione hesitated on the threshold, wondering if she was even able to leave the castle, but she encountered no resistance as she stepped out onto the grass. Although the dew felt cool under her feet, she left no footprints behind.

She found the two young men plodding morosely along toward the pitch, their broomsticks over their shoulders. Everything about them, from their slumped shoulders to the heavy silence between them, spoke of their current mental state, and for a moment Hermione was reluctant to intrude until she called to mind the likely reason for their depression.

"Harry? Ron?" she called softly.

The two boys stopped. Nervously, they looked at each other, then visibly screwing up their courage, turned to look behind them. Their screams were remarkable similar.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Hermione scolded. "What is the matter with you two? We've seen ghosts every day since we first got to Hogwarts!"

"Her-Her-Her," stuttered Ron.

"Hermione!" managed Harry.

"You're a ghost!" the said in unison.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "The promise of the wizarding world. Honestly."

"You're a ghost!" repeated Ron. "A real, honest to goodness ghost!"

As one, the boys tried to envelop her in a hug, only to end up hugging each other as their arms went right through her.

"Urg," commented Ron, extricating himself from Harry's embrace.

Harry pushed up his glasses. "Well, I'm glad to see you, even if I can't hug you. We've missed you so much, Hermione."

"Yeah," added Ron, swallowing heavily. "We really did. It's been awful. All this time we've been worried about Harry getting snuffed by You-Know-Who, and here you go and get done in by some stupid flowers."

"Well, I'm sorry about all that. I'm not thrilled about it, either."

"How did that happen?" Ron asked. "You died!"

"According to the Gray Lady I had unfinished business, so I'm a ghost instead."

"What kind of unfinished business?" Harry asked.

"Well, I have been rather obsessed with my NEWTS these last few weeks."

"Months," Ron muttered.

"So -- here I am." Hermione held out her arms, as if presenting her transparent self. "I wish I could give you a hug," she confessed.

"Me, too," Harry told her. "But having you here, like this... it doesn't hurt quite so bad any more."

"Yeah. It still stinks, but I'm glad you're here," Ron said, a trace of a smile lightening his sad features. Harry, too, looked inordinately pleased.

Hermione smiled back, just as delighted to be reunited with her friends. Another thought occurred as she pushed her hair back. "Do you think you could write to my parents for me? I'm having a bit of trouble holding a quill right now, but I'd like to send them a note."

"Sure," Harry agreed. "I'm not sure it will make things any better for them, though. It's not like you can go and visit them, you know."

"Can't I?" Hermione wondered aloud. "Are ghosts not allowed to travel? Or are we not able?"

"Good grief. She'd dead, and she's still asking questions," groaned Ron, a relieved, happy expression spreading across his face. "I suppose you'll want to look it up in the library, won't you?"

"Of course," Hermione said with a grin. "I've got loads of things to find out."

A voice from the direction of the pitch called to Harry and Ron, and they waved back.

"In a minute," Ron hollered.

"We've got to go," Harry said hurriedly. "We've already missed two practices, and if I miss a third I have to resign as captain of the team."

"We'll meet you in the library after lunch," Ron told her. "It's really good to see you, Hermione. I'm glad you're still going to be around."

Hermione waved as the boys ran off to the pitch, her heart lifting to see the spring in their steps now that they knew she was, if not precisely the same, still their friend and confidante. Smiling to herself, she went back up to the castle, noting how just being inside the massive stone edifice made her feel cozy and protected.

Once she'd reached the Gryffindor tower again, she remembered to say "Excuse me," to the Fat Lady as she plunged through the portrait hole. She had no idea what the password was, and frankly didn't care. The common room was deserted, leading Hermione to guess that it was Saturday. The other Gryffindors were either at breakfast or sleeping in.

Upstairs, she was a bit shocked to see only two beds in the room she'd occupied with Parvati Patel and Lavender Brown for the last six years. In the space her bed had once occupied there remained only a few boxes, one of which contained her textbooks. No trace of her trunk or clothing remained, and even Crookshanks' food and water bowl had disappeared. She spared a thought for the cat that had been her companion for the last five years, but could only assume her parents had taken him home with them.

Her former roommates' voices drifted through the door and Hermione straightened, happily anticipating an effusive greeting from her friends. Instead, the two girls entered the room, still chattering, and as they caught sight of Hermione's ghostly form, immediately dropped their bath things and began screaming.

"Oh, shut up, you two!" she demanded.

Unlike Ron and Harry, the two girls merely shifted keys and screeched even louder, clutching at each other before abruptly remembering they had feet and scrambling backwards through the door. The noise, however, had attracted the attention of the other Gryffindors returning from breakfast. A wide-eyed crowd began forming in the hallway.

"See? I'm not insane!" declared Seamus, fully dressed now. He pointed at Hermione. "I told you I saw her!" At his side, Neville and Dean nodded dumbly.

"What is the meaning of this hullabaloo?" demanded a stern voice, and the students reluctantly made way for their Head of House. Professor McGonagall prodded a sixth-year out of her way and stopped at the threshold of the room. "Good heavens," she exclaimed as she saw Hermione standing beside her boxed possessions.

"Good morning, Professor," she said politely.

McGonagall's mouth opened and closed three times before something came out. "Good morning. Are you the ghost of Hermione Granger?"

Amused at the phrasing, Hermione nodded.

"I see," said the older witch. "And what are your intentions?"

"I have no intentions," Hermione responded, puzzled. "I've only just woken up, or materialized, or whatever. I wanted to see what I'd missed." She indicated the boxes that incorporated her entire academic career. "Apparently I'm too late to make much of a difference."

"You're worried about your books?" Professor McGonagall asked sharply. "Do you wish something done with them?"

Becoming exasperated, Hermione crossed her arms. "Not really. Though Ginny Weasley is welcome to them, if she wants them."

"Miss Weasley!" McGonagall called over her shoulder. "Will you come here, please?"

The pretty red-haired girl appeared at the door and waved gingerly. "Hello, Hermione. How are you?"

"Dead, apparently," Hermione answered, smiling. Ginny's answering smile was a bit stiff, and Hermione sighed. "Would you like my books? You won't need them until next year, but I'd rather give them to you. Apparently my parents – " Hermione's voice caught suddenly, but she forced herself to continue, "my parents didn't want to take them."

Ginny nodded and levitated the box of books with a flick of her wand, and the students crowding behind McGonagall drew back enough to let the box pass.

When she'd gone, McGonagall fixed a firm eye on Hermione once again. "And the rest of your things?"

"I don't care," Hermoine told her. "Although – what happened to my wand?" She checked her robes, but the slender little pocket of her uniform was empty.

"Your wand was incinerated as part of your memorial service," McGonagall told her. "Is there anything else you need to know?"

I'd like to know why you're acting so very odd, Hermione thought, but did not say so. Instead, she shook her head.

"In that case, Miss Granger, I must remind you that the ghosts of Hogwarts are not allowed within the living or sleeping quarters of the students. You are free to haunt the rest of the castle, but Gryffindor tower is off limits."

Hermione felt as though she'd been slapped. Worse, she felt as though she'd been disowned. Searching McGonagall's stern, uncompromising face and the uneasy, diffident shifting of her classmates, she found no one willing to look at her.

"I understand," she whispered. Not even sure how she did it, Hermione disappeared from sight.

&&&&&

I hadn't really intended to repost this story after Fan Fiction booted this story off, allegedly for violating my PG rating, but I've received numerous requests to do so. Thank you all for your concern, and your lovely notes of support.


	2. Chapter 2

When Hermione finally managed to make herself visible once more and drifted morosely into the library, Harry and Ron were already there, waiting. The two young men were slumped in their respective chairs, picking absently at the covers of their schoolbooks and giving the appearance that they were at least thinking about studying.

"Hi," she said softly, and they both looked up.

"Where have you been?" demanded Ron. "We've been waiting for ages."

"Sorry," she apologized. "I was having a problem." She sniffled for a moment, determined to resist the urge to burst into tears. The possible comparison with Moaning Myrtle was too horrible to contemplate.

"We heard about what happened," Harry told her. "Everyone in the common room was acting really weird. I don't know why they were so bothered. You'd think they'd be happy to have their friend back."

Hermione hunched her shoulders. "I may have been Head Girl, but I don't think they were ever my friends."

"It doesn't really matter how much they liked you," Ron said baldly. "They're just thinking about themselves, now. You being a ghost just reminds them that they could have ended up dead, too."

"Don't worry about it, Hermione. We're glad to see you," Harry said firmly. "And I don't care what the others think. We'll always be your friends."

Hermione sighed and managed a tremulous smile. "Thank you, Harry. You don't know what that means to me."

"Yes I do, actually," he replied, pushing up his glasses. "Now, what did you want us to look up? We're supposed to be studying this afternoon, but I think we spare the time to research some ghosts."

Ron groaned, but obligingly fetched books and turned pages and argued with Harry over the significance and differences of ghosts throughout the ages. Unfortunately, none of the books they pored through had any relevant information for Hermione. Most seemed to concentrate on the history of various hauntings, or else spells to contain or banish ghosts. Several of the latter made Hermione quite uneasy, but were sufficiently complex enough to be beyond the abilities of most witches or wizards. She vaguely remembered that Moaning Myrtle had harassed Olive Hornby, the bane of her living existence and the object of her haunting after her death, until the ministry had cast some sort of exorcism spell, confining the teenage spirit to the lavatory where she'd died.

As for Harry and Ron, their amicable conversation with each other and with her was the same as it had been on a hundred other afternoons in the library, despite her changed status. Hermione enjoyed their company immensely, especially their refusal to treat her any differently. Never before had she appreciated their exasperation as she nagged the two of them into some studying, although Ron complained about the unfairness that Hermione would never have to study again. Harry pointed out that, for Hermione, it was the equivalent of the two of them never playing Quidditch again, which caused Ron to shudder and shut him up most effectively.

&&&&&

As the next few weeks passed quickly, Hermione found that the Gray Lady was correct in telling her that she would gain a different perspective on time. She did not exactly sleep as such, but often found her attention wandering and her mental state quite passive as the sun rose and climbed towards its zenith. Little drew her attention until the sun set later in the evening, and the setting rays glowing through the diamond panes of glass caused her to react much as the sunrise had before her death. More than once she came back from her daytime reverie to discover she'd drifted back to the Potions classroom, hovering over the table where she and Neville Longbottom had brewed the fatal potion.

The other ghosts observed roughly the same hours as Hermione did, and she soon began to learn the roles, duties, and occasional perks of being a Hogwarts ghost. In her opinion, it was very similar to being a First Year again, although she did not attend formal classes. Instead, she had endless lectures from the Gray Lady and the Bloody Baron as to what a proper ghost did and did not do. Apparently they had very firm ideas on the proper deportment of a Hogwarts ghost, and despite her numerous attempts to track down other details, the two mascot ghosts stuck gamely to their instructional plan.

One did not pass through a human's body, as it was unpleasant for both the human and the ghost. The living quarters of all four houses were off limits, scotching Hermione's burgeoning temptation to annoy the living hell out of Draco Malfoy. It was also the duty of every ghost to report Peeves the Poltergeist's truly horrid behavior to the Bloody Baron. As all of Peeves' behavior was reprehensible, in practice hardly any of the specters haunting the castle bothered.

A ghost was also forbidden to interact with the students or professors during the regular classes. In truth, Hermione would rather have been attending the normal curriculum, and she did continue to sit in on some of her favorites, floating high in the rafters of the classrooms as her peers continued their education without her.

By strict interpretation of the rules, she was supposed to remain invisible and silent during the school day, but the skill of turning invisible and more importantly returning to a visible state at first caused her some difficulty. Sir Nicholas was especially helpful in this respect, and although his attentions were a trifle proprietary for Hermione's taste, she was grateful for his advice and instructions. She chalked Nick's behavior up to the fact that he was the official Gryffindor mascot ghost and she, as another Gryffindor, was essentially his immediate family.

A few weeks after her death, the ghosts of Hogwarts held a debut of sorts for Hermione, inviting all the local spirits for miles around to meet her. The Headless Horsemen sent a lovely arrangement of dead roses in her honor, much to Nick's annoyance, and begged off attending her celebration as they were competing in an international headless polo match that evening. Every other ghost in the county, and some from even further afield, showed up to inspect the new member of the ranks, pass on unnecessary advice, and generally bore each other to death, if they hadn't already been dead to begin with.

Moaning Myrtle was among the attendees, but had been at the party for no more than a half-hour before she realized she was no longer the youngest ghost in the castle. Hermione tried to point out that Myrtle had in fact died when she was sixteen, and Hermione herself was already eighteen, but the adolescent ghost was too upset to listen to reason. She fled the dungeon in tears, her distraught wails waking up several Slytherins, and Filch grumbled for two days about the water all over the floors outside Mytle's bathroom.

&&&&&

The door to the Potions classroom flew open with less vigor than Severus Snape's usual entrance, but as it was late in the evening he expected his classroom to be empty, without a complement of students to jump guiltily. He was somewhat surprised, therefore, to find the room was not as deserted as it should have been. A pale form floated in mid-air above the silent ranks of worktables.

"Why are you here, Miss Granger?" he called as he identified the intruder. "Shouldn't you be out haunting someone?"

Hermione shook herself out of her early evening reverie. "I died here, Professor. You're rather stuck with me."

"Go chase the owls," he told her. "Chase Mrs. Norris, for all I care. I have work to do."

Hermione wafted through the air and considered a rude reply, but she wasn't by nature vindictive and it seemed a bit too much effort to get into a verbal spat with the unpleasant professor when she'd just woken up.

Instead, she watched as the Potions Master set up a series of cauldrons, each with a similar set of ingredients beside it. He shrugged off the heavy formal robes and his frock coat, leaving him in shirtsleeves and a black vest. The white linen of his shirt was something of a visual shock, almost as unexpected as the wand he produced from the long pocket sewn into the seam of his trousers. It was a pale gray, rather than the black she and the other Gryffindors had speculated about. They had also presumed he was less than proficient with a wand, a notion dispelled when he quickly and easily cast a shielding charm that swirled around his hands and face.

She recognized the protective spell at the same moment she noticed the jar of small Knightcap blossoms. A label on the jar in Snape's unmistakable heavy scrawl declared the contents contaminated and not to be used under any circumstances.

"You're working on the potion that killed me," she guessed. "Why?"

Snape did not bother to glance at her, but did answer the question. "Because it wasn't supposed to kill you, idiot girl. It should have simply sent you to sleep."

"It killed me because it had an extra ingredient in it. The fungus."

"Brilliant deduction," he said absently as he divided up the dried flowers among several trays. "The controversy is why this parasite turned a rather innocuous potion deadly."

Hermione floated down to stand next to the workbench and inspected the tiny blossoms that had ended her life. The pale blue petals were crinkled and folded tightly against their stems. She could detect no difference between the plant on the table and the one pictured in the color plate in the herbal Snape had laid open on the desktop.

"There is a class of fungus called ergot which infects grasses," she said, more thinking out loud than telling Snape something he probably learned while she was learning to read and write. "The alkaloids in the fungus cause vascular constriction, and can lead to frostbite and gangrene in the extremities and convulsions, hallucinations, and irreparable damage in the brain."

"And?" Snape prompted, his hands still busily preparing the ingredients. It appeared as though he were prepared to make several versions of the potion.

"If these plants were infected with a similar fungus, the alkaloids of that combined with the soporific effect of the potion could paralyze the autonomic nervous system. The body would simply quit breathing."

"Either stop breathing, or else constrict the blood vessels in the lungs to the point that they no longer exchange carbon dioxide and oxygen efficiently," Snape said. "The latter is my theory, and I'll be attempting to recreate this potion as you and Mr. Longbottom made it. Fortunately, Mr. Filch managed to round up some of the rats in the castle to test the potion on."

He nodded towards a crate in the corner of the room, the source of disgruntled scratching noises.

Hermione made a 'hmmm' of interest, and reached for the parchment with the potion recipe written on it. As usual, her hand went through the document without stopping.

"Damn."

Snape looked down his long nose at her, one lip curling slightly. "If you're quite finished wasting my time, Miss Granger, I have work to do, and your presence is of no help whatsoever. Go. Away."

"Yes, sir," she replied with a subdued sigh. "Thank you, by the way."

"Whatever for?" Snape asked impatiently as he worked, his voice betraying no curiosity at all.

"For talking to me like I'm real."

One of Snape's eyebrows rose. "You are real, ghost or student." A real pain in the arse, his tone implied.

"The live ones - the students, I mean, are usually too uncomfortable to speak to me. And the other teachers, especially Professor McGonagall, call me 'the ghost of Hermione Granger,' like I'm some bootleg issue of the real thing." She heaved a sigh. "Which begs the question - am I just a copy? Is the real Hermione Granger in Heaven or Valhalla or whatever, and I'm just an after-image?"

"I think, therefore I am," Snape quoted. "You exist. You have a thought process. That is all that is required to be intrinsically 'real,' Miss Granger. I refused to discuss the existence or disposition of anyone's soul, yours included."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to whine," Hermione said quickly glancing down at her hands. "It's just that... before I died, I thought I'd finally fit into the wizarding world at last. Now, my favorite teacher won't even speak to me."

"Minerva McGonagall views you as one of her failures," he told her brusquely. "Unfortunately, she has never been good at dealing with failure."

"Do you?"

"I on the other hand have had ample opportunity to deal with my failings."

"No, I meant, am I one of your failures? You didn't do anything wrong. It's not your fault I died."

"You died while in my care, Miss Granger. That automatically makes me at fault."

He might have been speaking of the weather or the condition of the Quidditch pitch for all the concern he showed, and Hermione felt decidedly ruffled by his nonchalance.

"You certainly take it well."

"What should I do? Rend my clothes, throw myself from the Astronomy tower? Shriek and run mad? You're simply another one of my victims, Miss Granger. Certainly not the first and most likely not the last."

She stared at him, mouth open, and this seemed to bring an icy disdain to Snape's attitude. His busy hands stilled in their tasks. "The fact of the matter, Miss Granger, is your death was not the tragedy of the decade. Not even of the year. However much that sanctimonious, iron-corseted old cat wants to sit in the staff lounge tutting about the loss of your potential, your death was not the end of life as we know it."

The only betrayal of the Potion Master's composure was those same hands, which stilled on the worksurface before him, loosening their grip on the dried flowers until the small bits of leaves and petals sifted between his long fingers to the polished black wood. "Do you have any idea how much potential I've seen wasted over the years? How many lives I've seen ended before their time? Cedric Diggory, or the Longbottoms; the list is endless, and yet life as we know it goes on. Inexorably. Unceasingly. Inescapably. Why should your passing cause so much as a flicker in the order of the universe?"

He inhaled sharply through his nose and let the breath out as if by willpower alone. "Good night, Miss Granger," he said pointedly, and went back to his preparations.

Hermione took his words for the dismissal they were and disappeared.

&&&&&

"It's not as if I were expecting anything from him," Hermione fumed for perhaps the forth time.

Harry and Ron nodded in silent agreement, not daring to say anything. The two of them had commandeered the Seventh Year boys' dormitory and evicted their fellow Gryffindors when Hermione had appeared, understandably upset.

Even deceased, Hermione Granger's temper was nothing to dismiss. She was pacing back and forth between the beds, but pacing was another of those activities that had lost their emphatic impact without a corporeal body. "Well?" she snapped, turning on them, not aware of the fact that her hair had gone extra bushy as she'd paced out her rage and she was not just a little bit scary looking at the moment.

"Well what?" Ron replied. "Snape's been yelling at you since the first time you raised your hand in his class."

"Me and every other Gryffindor. And for years I've defended him, telling you two to be more respectful, that he's really not that bad. Well, he is that bad. He's a cold hearted bastard!" she finished emphatically.

"Not really," Harry said in a colorless voice.

Hermione gaped at him. "Are you completely insane? What happened to the pair of you who always said Snape was so terrible? I'm surprised you haven't accused him of poisoning me."

"Well..." Ron hesitated. "There was a really nasty rumor going around that Snape poisoned you for being a Muggle-born and an annoying know-it-all."

"Like we've never heard that before," Hermione said impatiently. "You didn't believe it, did you?"

"Not - not really," Ron stuttered. He and Harry exchanged a look that their friend did not catch.

"He tried to save you," Ron admitted reluctantly. "He told us to go get Madame Pomfrey, and he was pushing on your chest to get your heart beating. For a second there we thought he was kissing you, but he was trying to get your lungs to work again. I forget what that's called."

"Mouth to mouth, I think, " Hermione supplied, stunned. She sat down and struggled to reconcile the two images; a teacher who tried to revive her and the one who'd just told her that her death was meaningless.

What she did not realize was that Harry and Ron were both staring. Since she no longer required a solid object to support her, she was currently seated several feet in the air, perched on the edge of nothing at all as she swung her feet back and forth, thinking.

"So he tried to save my life," Hermione grudgingly allowed. "That doesn't mean he's not a rude, insensitive git."

Again, Ron and Harry exchanged a look, and Hermione groaned. "Please, don't tell me."

"The night before your parents came to get you, we were going to sneak down and cut a lock of your hair, for memory's sake," Ron began.

The young men explained how they'd donned Harry's invisibility cloak and snuck down to the small chapel where her body was laid out. She could easily imagine them breathlessly pushing the chapel door open.

"But when we got inside, Snape was already there."

Hermione sat up straight. "What on earth for?"

Harry answered this time. "He was kneeling at the foot of your casket. He had his face against his hands, but he was either praying or crying." He shoved up his glasses. "I don't really think Snape's the religious sort."

"He was crying," Ron said, shuffling slightly in embarrassment. "I ought to know. Done a bit of it myself the last few weeks."

"What did you do?" she asked, stunned.

"We went back to Gryffindor tower-" Harry answered.

"Ginny was there," Ron interjected.

"And then we all three sat down and had a good bawl," Harry finished. "We were heartbroken when you died, Hermione," he told her. "We still are."

The utter desolation in Harry's voice made Hermione long to give him a hug, but she could only stand there while frosty ghost tears formed in her eyes and trailed down her transparent cheeks.

"What are you sniveling about?" Ron demanded, with a hint of his old humor even as he sniffed heavily and wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. "We're the ones who've lost our best friend!"

"I've lost you, too," Hermione sniffed. Fumbling absently in one of her pockets, she found a hanky and put it to good use. "I'm going to miss you two so much when you graduate."

"Us, too. Maybe we could owl you or something," Harry offered. "There must be a way to send you a letter or something." Normally, post owls could not find a person once they died, and although Hedwig was an extraordinary owl, it was a bit too much to ask of even that talented bird.

"Nearly Headless Nick gets mail sometimes," Ron said. "Maybe we could ask him how he gets it."

"Why not?" Hermione responded, thrusting the hanky into her pocket. "He should be in the kitchen this time of night. For some reason he likes to watch the house elves."

"I've noticed he likes to watch you, too," Ron said. Both he and Harry snorted with laughter.

"Do shut up, Ron," she told him impatiently. "Boys," she muttered, leading the way to the kitchens. Harry and Ron took a few moments to join her on the stairs, but then again they were forced to actually open the door before leaving the room.


	3. Chapter 3

Discretely occupying the top tier of the staff section of the stands, Hermione and several other ghosts endured the bright May sunshine to watch the final Quidditch match of the season. Although the game itself was thrilling, as Ravenclaw matched their infrequently brilliant plays against the Hufflepuff's dogged determination, the entire proceedings were rather anti-climactic. Both teams had been soundly defeated by Gryffindor earlier in the year, and Slytherin had likewise lost to Gryffindor by a substantial and embarrassing margin. They had then lost to Ravenclaw. Regardless of the final score, Gryffindor would accept the school Quidditch cup at the completion of today's game.

While Sir Nicholas and Hermione exchanged almost-sincere condolences with the Gray Lady and the Fat Friar, the Bloody Baron crossed his arms and looked displeased. Even though his team was not in the running for the cup, the Baron favored Ravenclaw over the Hufflepuffs. Unfortunately, the persistent yellow-robed Hufflepuff players were leading by nearly two hundred points when the Ravenclaw Seeker caught the Snitch and finally brought the season to a close. Hermione briefly wondered if the Hufflepuff Seeker might have just let his opponent catch the Snitch, but privately she doubted it. Fair play was one thing, but Quidditch was Quidditch.

Once the current players relinquished the field, Madame Hooch blew her whistle and announced that Gryffindor had won the cup. Around the stadium the students began to applaud, some more enthusiastically than others, as Harry and his teammates came out on the pitch in their scarlet robes for the last time. Hermione and Nick both clapped as well, even though their hands made very little noise, and shouted out 'well done' along with the rest of their house when Harry took the cup from Madame Hooch. Hermione could not help but be proud of Harry and Ron; there would now be three plaques in the Trophy Room with Harry's name on them. Of course, they sat next to the one emblazoned with Slytherin and Draco Malfoy's name, but that had been a hard-fought Slytherin victory that even Ron grudgingly had to admit was fair.

The crowds of celebrating students trickled out of the stands without the normal high exuberance usually shown after the final match of the year, but they'd known that Gryffindor had the cup already and that left little drama to wring from the situation. Most turned their attentions back towards school and other mundane issues, making their way back to the castle in sedate clumps. The other ghosts also rose over the pitch and streamed back to their haven, leaving Hermione to make her way to the base of the huge wooden stadium. The team locker rooms were house at the bottom of the structure, each with their own outside entrance, the doors emblazoned with the symbol of each house.

Hermione waited outside the door painted with a golden lion for what she felt was a reasonable amount of time, then cautiously stuck her head through the door. "Everyone decent?" she called out. The Gryffindors hadn't actually played a game so she doubted anyone was changing, but it was only polite to ask since she couldn't knock.

"Never," replied Dennis Creevey with a grin as he reclaimed his camera from his locker. Now in his fourth year, Dennis' cheerful optimism never wavered, even when he and his fellow Chasers were being pounded by their opponents. 'Really annoying,' Ron had once confided to Hermione. Never the less, he was as good on a broom as he was with a camera, and already had plans of being a professional sports photographer when he graduated.

"Um. Hermione. Hello," muttered the remaining Gryffindor player, one whose name Hermione could not remember. The girl was also a fourth year, but had never been eager to be friends before Hermione's death. Now, she hung up her Quidditch robes with haste and quickly fled the locker room. "Coming?" she called to Dennis as she waited for Hermione to finish coming through the door before she opened it.

"Yeah, be right there," he answered. "See you later," he said with a casual wave to his teammates, and followed. Behind him, Ron and Harry gave desultory responses as the sat side by side on the bench.

"Well, congratulations. Another winning season for Gryffindor!"

"Yeah. I guess so," Harry responded.

Hermione raised a pale eyebrow at him, and at Ron's equally less than enthusiastic response. "You guess so? What happened to the pair who used to scream themselves hoarse over every win?"

"We were just talking," Ron replied. "It's all over. We're never going to play another Quidditch game for Gryffindor. Ever."

"Oh," she drawled. "I see. End of an era, and all that."

"Didn't expect you to understand," Ron groused.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hermione asked sharply.

"Well, you never did like Quidditch all that much," he answered absently, still toying with his scarlet robe.

Hermione made a non-committal noise, mentally berating herself for jumping to the wrong conclusion. Ron's comment had been about Quidditch, and not suggesting that she no longer understood mortal concerns.

"Come on," Harry said firmly to Ron, giving him a nudge with his elbow. With a deliberation that was almost reverent, he hung his scarlet robe in the locker and firmly shut the door. "We've got a party waiting for us up in the common room. And I've got to break it to Dennis that he's not the new team captain."

"He won't care," Ron said. "He's one of those mad fools who only play for the fun of it."

"Ron, have I ever told you that you take this game much too seriously?" Hermione asked.

"Only about a thousand times," Harry answered for his friend, grinning. "But you usually include me in that. Don't you like me any more, Hermione?"

"Oh, shut up," Hermione told him, grinning as well.

Once inside, Ron and Harry made for the main staircase, heading for Gryffindor Tower with Hermione gliding behind. The boys had just hopped over the trick stair that marked the halfway point when a head popped out over the railing several flights up. An imperative shout gave little doubt as to the owner's identity, thought the red hair would have done the same.

"OI!" shouted Ginny. "Where have you two been? Never mind," she said before they could respond. "We're out of pumpkin juice. You need to go to the kitchens and nick some off the house elves."

"Sure," Harry called back as he paused on the steps. "You go on back. We'll be there in a minute."

"And you thought I was bossy?" Hermione asked archly. "At least I wasn't mad at you all the time. Are you sure you want to go live at the Burrow with the Weasleys after you graduate? Ginny's going to make your life hell."

"She bosses you worse than my Mum does," Ron commented in an undertone as they all turned to go down the stairs once more. "Seriously, you should never have broken up with her. The girl's completely mental -- and you've never seen anyone hold a grudge like she can."

"You're a load of help," Harry complained, taking the lead and steering all three of them down a different staircase towards the kitchen, taking the steps two a time. "First you tell me not to date your sister. Then you tell me not to break up with her. Make up your mind already."

Ron merely shrugged, having no practical advice to give, and grabbed at the handrail as the lower end of the staircase they were on began to grumble and slide. Even though she had no need of it, Hermione felt the urge to hang on to something. Her hand merely slid through the stone baluster, however, and she was forced to drift with the moving stairs. The new landing had been deserted by all other staircases, apparently, and hung lonely and forlorn in mid-air. It also held a single figure waiting to ascend.

Draco Malfoy's face twisted with distaste as he saw the three of them. "Well, if it isn't the Famous Harry Potter. If only your adoring public knew you were too stupid to even find your common room. You're supposed to be going the other direction. All your suck-up fans are just waiting to fawn all over you, aren't they? Everyone knows the Gryffindors can't do a single thing right without Potter showing them how!"

Harry's tired grimace could not quite be called a smile. "Sod off, Malfoy."

"Yeah, get stuffed," Ron echoed. "Go lick your wounds in private. Better yet, go lick your privates."

"Ron!" Hermione burst out, then gave him a resigned look. "Look, why don't you both go up to the Tower, and I'll go to the kitchens for you. I'm sure if I asked, Dobby would be glad to bring everything up for the party."

"Good grief," Draco sneered. "The Mudblood is dead, and she's still telling you what to do, Weasley. Can you even tie your shoe without her?"

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry ordered.

"Or what, Potter?" Malfoy looked him over. "You may be cock of the walk here, but just you wait until school's over!"

"You know what?" Harry asked him suddenly. "I'm bored with your stupid threats, Malfoy, and I'm bored with you. You couldn't intimidate a First Year without your two bodyguards, and right now you're just wasting my time. Thanks, Hermione. We'll see you in a bit, okay?"

Deliberately turning his back, Harry began to climb the stairs, dismissing Draco's very existence. Ron snorted in agreement and followed his friend.

Incensed, Draco put his foot on the first stair and made to follow the two, but stopped short when he realized Hermione's ghostly form blocked his path. "Get out of the way," he ordered uneasily.

"Make me," Hermione retorted. She held her place on the stair, knowing her cold was radiating to him just as his body heat was radiating to her. Humans were incredibly warm to the ghosts, and the one time she'd accidentally brushed through Ron's arm had felt as though she'd stuck her arm in hot porridge.

"I'm not afraid of you, Mudblood. You're dead, just not as dead as you should be."

"Aren't you afraid? Just a little?" She smiled maliciously and deliberately drifted down another step. Faced with either retreating or allowing her to touch him, Draco waited until the translucent edge of her robes were nearly brushing his chest before he backed down the step, all the while glaring viciously at her.

Hermione gave him a tight, victorious smirk in return before nonchalantly turning and drifting through the stone banister. Sculling her hands gently through the empty air, she floated above the open shaft of the stairwell and narrowed her eyes at Malfoy, thinking longingly of all the things the Bloody Baron and the Gray Lady had told her were strictly forbidden for a Hogwarts ghost to do to a 'live one.'

"If you were half as clever as you pretend to be, Draco Malfoy, you'd be very afraid of me."

The Slytherin muttered under his breath, but said nothing further as Hermione drifted downwards, gaining speed until she ricocheted around the confines of the stairwell, her robes flapping soundlessly. Sir Nicholas had taught her to fly through the air as easily as any school owl, and she reveled in the freedom even as she showed off. To be honest, she had always thought the swirling flight to be a bit much (not to mention it reminded her of watching Moaning Myrtle swirl down the toilet bowl), but she had to admit it was an impressively dramatic way to make an exit.

&&&&&

May turned to June, and the collective tempers of the seventh year students grew progressively shorter as the N.E.W.T.s drew nearer. Madame Pince was forced to intervene several times as disputes over reference books almost descended into fistfights. Everyone was edgy and most of the students were getting red-eyed from too little sleep and too much caffeine. Madame Pomfrey made her usual attempts to curb the amount of coffee served to students and Minerva McGonagall, as usual, pretended to give the matter some serious consideration. In actuality, she had an arrangement with the house elves to be sure they brewed large pots of the stuff and served it to anyone sneaking down to the kitchens for a midnight raid. Anyone coming later than midnight would find only warm milk.

While most of the students would never have considered asking the former Head Girl for help with their subjects, they weren't averse to a accepting a well-timed word of caution. Unable to contribute in any other way, Hermione spent many evenings acting as a lookout for Filch or his cat. She knew the lower levels quite well by now, and kept more than one nocturnal student from getting a detention. The younger students would even talk to her occasionally, having forgotten that she'd been one of them just a few months ago.

It was one of these late nights, just a week short of the exams, when Draco Malfoy wandered into the kitchens and loudly ordered the one house elf still up to make him a sandwich. The elf happily complied. Hermione scowled at the elf, irritated at its subservient behavior, but as she was invisible at the moment the scowl made no impression on the elf.

While the elf served Malfoy his sandwich, along with a glass of lemonade and a precisely quartered apple, Hermione waited patiently for the exact moment. She settled onto the bench opposite the blond Slytherin, gauging her timing until he was in the midst of chewing a large mouthful and had just lifted the glass to his lips to wash it down.

"You're a horrible, nasty little sneak, Draco, and I hope the elves poison you for ordering them around like that," she declared, materializing at the same moment.

The Weasley twins would have applauded; Draco choked and spat the lemony, half-masticated sandwich across the table and through Hermione's translucent form. For several moments, he was coughing too much to utter more than a few disjointed swear words.

"For fuck's sake, Granger!" Draco swore, his face red from rage and partial asphyxiation. "Are you trying to kill me?!"

"Don't think the idea hasn't crossed my mind," she retorted. "But unlike you, I have a few scruples left. I wouldn't try to kill you just because you're the most obnoxious person on the face of the planet. After all, watching you suffer is much more fun."

Draco wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, glaring. "Why aren't you up in Gryffindor country, tutoring those two pathetic idiots? They're never going to pass unless you hold their hands. I really ought to remind Professor Snape to ban ghosts from the Great Hall during exams so you can't tell them the answers."

Hermione shot him a disgusted look. She'd spent quite a bit of time recently tutoring Harry and Ron as they threw themselves into the last few weeks of their academic career, and they weren't quite as ready as she thought they should be. The two boys had rolled their eyes at her and insisted she worried too much.

"Some people, Draco, can make their way on their own. They don't have rich daddies who buy them spots on the Quidditch team or give them jobs in the family firms."

"My father isn't buying me anything. When I get out of here, I'll be in control of the Malfoy fortunes," Malfoy reminded her with his trademark smirk. Officially, Lucius Malfoy was still a fugitive. The confidence in his voice, however, was somewhat lacking.

"Will you?" Hermione asked. "Or will you be taking the Dark Mark along with half the other Slytherins?"

"Shut up, Mudblood. You don't know anything about it."

"I know more than you think," she shot back. "I saw Professor Snape come back with blood on his robes last month. I doubt he was out for an evening stroll."

Actually, Snape had been helping Hagrid deal with an acromantula who'd wandered from the nests in the Forbidden Forest, but Hermione saw no reason to elaborate. She doubted if Malfoy was familiar with the frequency of Voldemort's summons.

Unexpectedly, Draco flinched and his blue-gray eyes dropped away. Without another word, he drained his glass and set it on the plate next to the half-eaten sandwich. His fingers quickly gathered the apple pieces and wrapped them in a thin handkerchief he pulled from a pocket. The food was tucked into his robes as he rose and made for the door.

Watching from the table, Hermione was a bit surprised when he stopped just beside the opening. He appeared to be debating something, and after a moment turned to look at her. For once, his expression lacked any contempt; in fact, if Hermione didn't know better, she would even have said he looked troubled.

"Did it hurt?" he blurted out, and immediately looked as though he wished he could retract the question.

Hermione rose from the table and drifted over towards the young man. "To die?" she asked.

His pale cheeks flushed, but he nodded jerkily.

"No," she said finally. "It didn't hurt. It just annoyed the hell out of me, because I've left so many things undone."

"Like what?" he asked. His question lacked the usual bite of disdain.

"Let's see – there's the N.E.W.T.s, graduating...doing whatever necessary to help Harry defeat Voldemort."

"You may be waiting a long time for that," he warned her.

Hermione smiled easily. She had far more time than Draco Malfoy knew. "Tell me something, Draco. Do you really think Voldemort is going to win? Kill Harry, and Ron, and everyone who doesn't fit into your father's ideal wizard world? Dead half-bloods and Muggle-borns everywhere?"

For once, Draco did not have an immediate answer. When the bowl of fruit still life painting swung open beside him and Harry Potter stepped through opening, Hermione knew he never would.

"What's going on?" Harry asked quietly, giving Draco a wary glance.

"Not much, really," Hermione answered. "Draco and I were just talking about death."

"I thought you knew all about death," Harry told him. "You talk about it easily enough."

Draco frowned and swallowed. His mouth twisted, and perfect teeth worried at his lip but it was a long moment before any words came out. "I'd never seen anyone die before," he admitted, almost as if the words were against will. "But I can see the thestrals, now."

"It's not what you expected, was it?" Harry asked him soberly. Draco's pale eyes meet Harry's, and the understanding there was enough to make the blond boy flinch.

"Granger – when she died..." The young man forced himself to finish the question. "Is that was Diggory looked like?"

"Not like that," Harry said thoughtfully, his dark eyebrows drawn down in memory. "He looked – surprised, more than anything. Hermione just looked like she'd fallen asleep."

"My dad told me it feels like you're a god when you kill," Draco blurted out. "I don't see how. How can that make you feel powerful?" He swallowed again, looking pale and uncertain. "I don't understand anything anymore."

"You're not your dad," Harry told him. "You don't have to feel what he feels."

"Or believe what he believes, Potter?" Draco suddenly sneered, as if finally remembering he was speaking to a mortal enemy. "Think you can save me from my father's evil ways?"

"Do you want to be saved?" Harry asked.

Draco's shoulders hunched, but he didn't answer. Instead, he turned away rudely and went back down to the Slytherin dorms. Harry turned to Hermione, as if to ask what she thought, and she could only shrug in reply.

&&&&&

When the exams finally began, Hermione found she could not bear to be around the students any longer. Hearing them all chattering about the essays they were required to write, and asking what answer had been given for this question or that one and exulting over finally being finished sent her rocketing straight up into the highest reaches of the castle. Even that was not the refuge she thought it might be. Students about to be separated from their current boyfriends and girlfriends could be found snogging madly in every out-of-the-way place Hermione went for solitude. It was nearly enough for her to go in search of Mrs. Norris, just so she could evict the students from her haunts.

Instead, Hermione summoned every shred of fortitude she possessed and went in search of Moaning Myrtle. There wasn't actually much searching necessary; Myrtle seldom left the girls' third floor bathroom, and even when she did she could easily be heard weeping and moaning from quite some distance away. The other ghost was suspicious, but was eventually convinced that Hermione really, truly wanted a full tour of the plumbing system at Hogwarts.

Two days later, Hermione and Myrtle emerged from the drain in the main courtyard, Myrtle almost bubbling with satisfaction at teaching the know-it-all Gryffindor something and Hermione doing her best to maintain a somewhat painful smile. It was an interesting way to get around the castle, and she could see where it might actually come in handy at some unknown point in the future. However, Hermione really didn't think she needed to know how to find the bathrooms for all the boys dorms in all four houses. Quite frankly, it made her wonder about Myrtle, and that was something else Hermione didn't think she needed to know.

&&&&&

Severus Snape drained the last bitter dregs of tea from his cup and set it precariously on the stack of final exam papers at the corner of his desk. He was fairly sure those were the fourth-years, since the drifts of fifth-years' OWL's had, as usual, taken over the center of the black mahogany surface. More papers dripped from the shelves behind him, held in place by a pickled specimen in a jar so old even he was unsure as to which species it had started its existence.

Another nearby chair held even more rolls of parchment, these the essays from the seventh-year N.E.W.T.s. Those, fortunately, were marked already, each bearing the last bits of sarcasm their authors would ever be forced to endure from him. It was well past midnight, but he had little hope of finishing his grading until sunrise. The end of the school year was the one time where his legendary insomnia was of use. A fresh pot of tea, a new economy-size pot of red ink, and he was in business.

The faint sound of feminine throat being cleared came from somewhere in front of his desk, and a form materialized.

"May I have a moment of your time, Professor?"

"No, you may not," he retorted, not bothering to look up. He hadn't missed his personal phantom the last few days, and he very much wanted to not miss her for as long as she could contrive to be away. His quill continued its journey across the parchment, making no allowances for her presence.

Behind her back, Hermione's hands twisted in consternation. This hadn't started well, and her resolve was leaking away quickly. She wasn't at all sure her request was even possible, but hearing her friends discussing the final exams had been the final straw. The calm acceptance she'd been striving for had abruptly evaporated, and now here she was, trying to talk the most uncooperative teacher she'd ever had to do her a favor.

"If you please, Professor, I'd very much like to take my N.E.W.T. exam in potions."

The quill stopped abruptly, and Snape's black eyes suddenly pinned Hermione with a dark, hard stare. "You're not serious," he said repressively.

"Very," she replied. "I died before completing my schooling here at Hogwarts. I'd like to rectify that."

With a dismissive snort, Snape began his grading again. "Then ask your Head of House, not me."

"You're the least likely to say yes," Hermione told him recklessly. "I thought if I could get you to agree first, the other professors would be willing as well."

"Then the answer is no," he shot back. "I'm busy, and I've no time for fulfilling ridiculous fantasies."

"Please, Professor Snape. One more on top of all the others wouldn't really be that much..."

"One more!" Snape barked, and slapped the stacks of parchment nearest him. "One more straw for the camel's back, you mean. The answer is no, Miss Granger, and I demand you go elsewhere and leave me in peace!"

Rather than be intimidated by the thundering deep voice of the Potions Master, Hermione glared back at him. "I would think, considering the facts around my death AND the fact that I would have been taking the N.E.W.T. anyway - IF I hadn't died - would be enough for you to see your way clear to accommodating my request," she argued stubbornly. "You must admit I've been very reasonable. A great many new ghosts come back upset and very unhappy. They've been known to make their place of death uninhabitable. I could have done the same to your classroom."

"And I could have had you bound," Snape retorted brutally.

"I can only be forced to stay where I died." Glaring, she swooped into the air to hover above her old table. "Which was right about here, wasn't it? You could have me shackled right here, Professor, where I could whisper advice to every Longbottom to come through those doors for the rest of your days!"

"All right!" Snape roared. His clenched jaw suddenly relaxed. "You may take your potions N.E.W.T., Miss Granger - just as soon as you can lift a quill to write your answers."

Horrified, Hermione gaped at him. "But I can't do that."

"Can't you? Pity." His unconcern was evident, and he smiled thinly as he retrieved his quill and dipped it in the red ink. She could have sworn he was humming.

&&&&&

The noises from the Common Room were winding down, finally, as Hermione watched Harry and Ron play one last game of chess in their dorm. Seamus Finnegan's voice could still be heard wafting up the stairs as he sang an off-color song to Lavender and several of the younger girls, but the traditional end of term party was rapidly loosing steam. On his bed, Dean Thomas lay snoring loudly, still in his robes. Neville, on the other hand, had last been seen sneaking out the portrait hole with his Hufflepuff girlfriend, who may have been a mere fifth-year but was years ahead of her peers when it came to snogging in out-of-the-way places.

In a few short hours they would be on the Express, heading towards London, the Burrow, and the rest of their lives. It was all Hermione could do to maintain her nonchalance as the three of them talked quietly, trying to be enthusiastic as Harry discussed the various job offers he'd received, while Ron alternated between his own desire to learn curse-breaking like his brother or taking an apprenticeship with his father's department at the Ministry.

"So the greasy git wouldn't budge? Somehow, that doesn't surprise me. It's just like him to use a technicality to get out of doing anything more than he has to." Harry's tolerance for Snape had reached a new low after the grueling potions final.

"Would you not be a ghost if you finished your N.E.W.T.S?" asked Ron, only half paying attention as he swiftly demolished Harry's defensive perimeter.

"Well, I'm told I didn't pass on because I hadn't accomplished some important goals in life. If I can't do them now, I guess I'm stuck here." Hermione shrugged and leaned back against nothingness, only nominally perched on the back of Ron's chair. He occupied only the front few inches of the seat, leaning forward as he was while he studied the chess pieces before him.

"Nick said he was afraid of death," Harry offered. "I got the impression that once you're a ghost, you don't have much choice about sticking around."

"Probably," Hermione said with a sigh. "Oh, well. So I'll never get to take my N.E.W.T.s. I'll get used to the idea sooner or later."

"Was there anything else you'd not finished? Besides the N.E.W.T.S., I mean?" Harry asked, paying only superficial attention to the board as he moved his rook deep into Ron's territory.

"She hasn't read every single book in the library," grumbled Ron as he scowled at the board. He moved a piece, then reconsidered and moved it back.

Hermione made a face at the back of his head. "And now I can't do that. I can't read anything unless someone leaves a book out."

"Why not?" Ron asked absently. "You're sitting down, aren't you? Why is it your bum can do something your hands can't?"

For a long moment, Hermione simply gaped, openmouthed, before staring down at the chair back that served as her seat. "Holy Cricket!" she exclaimed in a disgusted voice. "How can your brain work a problem out so clearly and then express it so crudely?"

"Dunno. Always has," Ron admitted, unembarrassed. "Sorry, mate. Check."

Harry glanced down at the board, tilting his head to one side before nodding significantly at the bishop lurking to one side on the board. With a self-important strut the piece slid forward, demolished Ron's queen with a single blow of his mace, and then crossed his arms and glared at the opposing king in the same diagonal avenue.

"Checkmate," declared Harry. "Good game, though."

While Ron made odd sputtering noises, Harry addressed himself to Hermione. "He might be on to something there, Hermione. I've seen the Gray Lady weaving tapestries before, and Professor Binns always marks our homework. I'm not entirely sure he actually reads it, but he does grade it. There's got to be a way for ghosts to move stuff physically."

"Yeah, look at Peeves. He messes with stuff all the time," Ron chimed in, having accepted defeat if not gracefully at least with only a sour grimace. "You just gotta figure out how."

Racking the pieces into their case, Harry put the game set atop Ron's trunk. "You should have plenty of time to figure it out once we're all out of your hair." His attempt at humor fell flat, and he closed his own trunk quietly. "We're going to miss you, Hermione."

"I'll miss you, too," she replied, smiling bravely and utterly determined not to give in to the threatening tears. Her resolve held while the boys packed their last remaining bits and pieces, removing all traces of their existence from the rooms they'd occupied for the past seven years. It held while Harry instructed Hedwig on how to deliver letters to a specific place, rather than an individual, as Nearly Headless Nick had advised.

Her composure lasted all the way through the mad dash to get everything to the train station in the morning, with everyone rushing around and hugging and promising to keep in touch with each other, no matter what. It wasn't until the train pulled out, billowing white clouds of steam nearly the same color as her spectral robes, and Harry and Ron's waving arms were back inside their compartment, that Hermione burst into tears and took refuge in the dark shadows of the third floor corridor, the same chamber where the three of them had begun their first real adventure together, to sob her heart out.


	4. Chapter 4

After a long day and night spent moping in the third floor corridor, Hermione forced herself to straighten up and be sensible. Mustering her soggy determination, she smoothed her robes, pulled up that droopy sock once more, and mopped away the last of her tears with a handkerchief before thrusting it back into the same pocket she'd found it in. Feeling better, if not exactly ready for battle, she marched through the wooden door in search of answers. Enough time had been spent imitating Moaning Myrtle. There was a problem to solve.

Ironically, she' no sooner she left the third floor and begun drifting down towards the main portion of the castle than one possible source of information was brought to her attention. Drawn by the sound of muffled shrieks and curses accompanied by abysmal singing, Hermione left the central stairwell for one of the smaller staircases.

Peeves, the multicolored poltergeist and arguably Hogwarts' most notorious spirit resident, was making up rude lyrics as he tormented the portraits hanging on the walls. Most of the subjects had managed to sidle from one frame to another, but a few were not so quick and were trapped as Peeves plucked their canvas from the wall and swung it wildly around and around until the occupant shouted for mercy. Those shouts only made the vindictive little spook chuckle loudly and reverse directions.

Fortunately for the portraits, Peeves had a low boredom threshold. If the reaction from his current victim was not sufficiently panicked, he quickly abandoned that particular piece and moved on. Some of the frames, however, were attached more securely to the wall. When grunting and swearing did not liberate his prize, Peeves settled for turning the paintings to one side or the other, and in some cases actually getting the portrait to hang the wrong way up on the wall. Cackling, he left the painted people dodging falling furniture and attempting to keep their hats clapped to their heads while hanging upside down in a most undignified manner.

Watching him wreak havoc, Hermione was intrigued. "How do you do that?" she asked loudly.

"Do what?" Peeves shot back suspiciously. He had just broken the wire on a small landscape and swung the miniature image of a shepherdess back and forth, oblivious to her screams and the distraught bleats of the sheep she refused to abandon.

"Move things," she elaborated. "I can't touch anything."

Scratching his chin thoughtfully, Peeves gave her an appraising look. "What's it worth to you?"

Hermione thought quickly. "I happen to be friends with Fred and George Weasley. I can get them to send you a package of their Wizard Wheezes."

The poltergeist chortled and rubbed his hands together gleefully, dropping the unfortunate shepherdess to fall on the floor with the rest of the pictures. He held the Weasley twins in high esteem ever since their dramatic exit two years ago, mostly because they were the only humans who'd ever managed to cause as much mayhem as he did. A maniacal grin stretched across his wide mouth, revealing teeth that were spaced like a picket fence.

"And all you want to know is how I move things?"

"Exactly. Teach me that, and I'll even see if I can get them to send you some of their experimental items – things they haven't even put out for sale yet. You'd be the first to have them."

Peeves' legs began to jerk about in an ugly little mid-air dance, ecstatic at the thought of the trouble he could cause. "Oh, Filchy's little eyes will pop right out of his head! Oh, oh, oh, oh, YES!" he crowed.

"But not until you teach me," Hermione warned, beginning to get a bad feeling about the entire bargain. She was not reassured when Peeves abruptly stopped his jig and gave her another assessing glance.

"You want to know how? Do you REALLY want to know how?"

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know," Hermione ground out.

"Because I can!" he cackled madly, grabbing his ridiculously long feet and rolling himself down the stairs. Hermione watched with narrowed eyes as the colorful poltergeist went bouncing over the trick stair and ricocheted across the landing.

"He's an absolute, buggering psychopath," she muttered to herself with a sigh. On the floor below, a sheep gave a plaintive bleat in agreement.

Knowing it couldn't possibly have been that easy, Hermione pondered on whom next to question on the subject of ghosts and the movement of inanimate objects. The possibility of touching a live creature was out of the question, as they were far too uncomfortable to handle. The Bloody Baron had told her that was because ghosts and living things had incompatible energy. She supposed it was similar to positive and negative polarity, but that was a hypothesis to investigate another day. Today's investigation was on manipulating things, and the more she considered the matter, the more Hermione began to think Moaning Myrtle might be a valuable source of information on that.

Unfortunately, Moaning Myrtle was no more helpful than Peeves. When asked how she flooded the girls' lavatory, Myrtle could only report that the toilets seemed to overflow when she became upset. Even as she spoke, Myrtle's close-set eyes began to well with tears and she fled to her toilet. Hermione was left to watch a geyser of water erupt over the walls and eddy in waves across the floor, accompanied by the sound of Myrtle's wailing echoing up from the pipes.

Faced with the option of either asking Professor Binns or figuring it out on her own, Hermione chose to retreat to her place of death and do some serious thinking. The answer was just out of reach, of that she was certain. If she could just get the pieces in her mind to align themselves, the answer would reveal itself in a flash of brilliant deduction.

For a bit she wondered about the elemental magic children performed without conscious thought, but soon abandoned that line of thinking. Elemental magic involved live creatures performing magic without touch. She was a non-living creature, wanting to touch something without magic.

Engrossed in her own thoughts, she paid little attention when Severus Snape entered the dungeon classroom. He, however, noticed her and his thin mouth narrowed even further as he watched her float aimlessly near the rafters.

"Miss Granger, I would appreciate it if you would not clutter up my ceilings." His tone left no doubt that it was not a request.

"I'm thinking," she muttered, otherwise ignoring him.

"Do it elsewhere."

"I like it here," she replied truculently. She did, actually, both as the site of her death and as the classroom where she was most challenged during her school days.

"Sadly, I must remind you that this is my classroom, Miss Granger," he began as he rummaged through the texts on his desk.

"For the duration of your teaching career, sir," she interrupted. "My lease on this room seems to be a bit longer. When you're dead and gone I'll still be here."

Snape shot her a sour look, then narrowed his eyes in a calculation. "Do you realize I can see your knickers?" he asked blandly.

Without thinking Hermione dropped towards the floor and clapped her hands to her thighs, making sure her weightless black robes did not whip up too high. "Wait a minute," she objected. "You couldn't possibly see anything. And I'm not even sure I have knickers."

"Perhaps not," he replied, "but it got you off my ceiling."

Severus allowed himself a small smirk when she did not reply. When he found the book he was looking for, he glanced up to see if she'd left the room yet. In that, he was disappointed, since Hermione was merely standing still, a crumpled handkerchief in her hand. What did catch his attention was the wide-eyed look in her eyes, startling on a ghost. Then, to his dismay, she began to undress. The long black student robe swiftly came off, revealing her white uniform blouse. The gray school sweater had been tied around her waist. It, too, was removed from her person.

"MISS GRANGER! Do you MIND not stripping in the middle of my classroom?"

"What? Oh, I'm not stripping, as you put it, Professor. I just wanted to know what happened to my clothes." She regarded the ghostly garments lying draped in translucent folds over the nearby chair. "Odd."

Snape heaved a martyred sigh. "As much as I may regret asking, Miss Granger, what is odd?"

"Well, I know several of the ghosts here dress up for caroling during the winter season. And Sir Nicholas has a variety of ruffs he changes out depending on the weather. So where do these clothes come from?"

Hermione picked up the student robes and frowned at them. Recognizing the furious expression as one of deep thought and intrigued despite himself, he kept silent. The sooner she solved her problem, the sooner she'd be out of his dungeon.

In moments, the black cloth in Hermione's hands lengthened, the edges growing ragged, flowing into outlandishly elaborate dags. With a flourish Hermione swept the newly formed cloak around her shoulders, the fluttering bits suitably dramatic for a ghost.

"HA!!!" she proclaimed. "Eureka! YesYesYesYESYESYES!!! That's it! That explains everything!" The dags flew every which way as she danced in a gleeful circle, one remarkably similar to that performed by Peeves earlier.

"It's a cloak, Miss Granger, and has no powers of speech. It didn't explain anything."

She flipped one trailing cloak edge over her arm, her excited energy burning. "Why can Nick change his ruff at will? Because he does it - at WILL. Moaning Myrtle's been lurking in the girls' toilet for more than fifty years, picking at her disgusting spots, because she doesn't WANT to do anything else. How does Peeves make such spectacular messes? BECAUSE HE CAN!!!"

Snape leaned negligently against his desk and regarded her as if she'd lost her mind. Ignoring him, Hermione crossed the dungeon classroom and stopped in front of the freestanding blackboard. A single piece of white chalk lay in the tray. With a slightly shaking hand, she reached out and poked it with her finger. A finger that went right through it.

Three more pokes had similar results, leaving Hermione scowling at the chalk in annoyance.

"Well, that's certainly progress," remarked Severus Snape, making no attempt to disguise his amusement. He tucked his book under one long arm and left the classroom, a jaunty lilt in his step.

As soon as the door closed behind the smug professor, Hermione set her jaw in a ferocious scowl. With a wordless scream, she lashed out at the chalk with all the anger and frustration she'd bottled up since she'd first woken to her afterlife, coupled with seven years of suffering under the yoke of Muggleborn prejudice and the overwhelming injustice of one sarcastic bastard of a Potions Master.

The chalk lay in its narrow wooden bed and was supremely unconcerned.

Dejected, Hermione let out a groan and slumped to the floor, sitting cross-legged on the flagstones. Her newly formed robes settled in a puddle around her, and slowly she let her eyelids droop shut as she forced herself to think once more.

"All right, Granger," she muttered to herself. "That stupid hanky exists because you thought it should exist. You never carried one before, but this one is always here when you need it. What does that mean?"

Her knees drew up, and she hugged them to her chest as she tried to make sense of the nebulous threads of ideas running through her head. Long minutes passed as she pondered on Moaning Myrtle, Peeves, and endless essays on the Goblin Wars marked by a ghost who'd been boring Hogwarts' students for the better part of a century.

Nearly an hour passed unnoticed before Hermione rose to her knees and confronted the problem once more. This time, however, her face nearly passive. Only her eyes, which never needed to blink but did so out of habit, stared unwaveringly at the innocuous piece of chalk. Neither did her hand tremble when she reached out and grasped the short white length. It made a faint chinking noise as it lifted out of the tray and a louder clatter as she dropped it in surprise.

Anyone standing out in the hallway might have heard a bright burst of delighted laughter coming from a classroom better known for causing misery. Had they lingered, they might have soon heard the tentative scratching of chalk against the blackboard, a sound that grew more and more decisive and confident as the hours passed.

&&&&&

Shortly after breakfast the next morning, Severus Snape returned to his classroom to work on his private projects and lesson plans for the coming year, only to stop abruptly in the doorway. Near the far wall stood his favorite blackboard, the sight of which had reduced many a student to tears once they saw the pop quiz he'd put up. This morning, however, it was covered with marks and scribbles, not to mention a few games of tic-tac-toe and, given the medium, a rather respectable rendition of Professor Dumbledore. The sentence 'My name is Hermione Granger' appeared multiple times, with varying degrees of neatness, and beneath it all, in large letters, appeared the legend 'Because I Can!'

"Wonderful," growled Snape to the empty classroom, reaching for the battered eraser. He took no notice as his agitated movements released a fine white dust that settled onto his black robes. "Perhaps the next time she might be so considerate as to NOT leave this nonsense on my board!"

"Sorry about that, Professor," Hermione replied.

He hadn't been expecting a response and so looked up and around, startled, trying to locate the voice. Near the ceiling, Hermione briefly turned herself visible.

"I'll clean it up next time," she promised, then yawned delicately behind one hand as she faded from view once more.

Left alone in the classroom, Snape briefly considered hiding all the chalk, then dismissed the idea as fruitless and turned once more to his preparations for the day. True to her word, his blackboard was clear every morning, though he had to requisition a new box of chalk from the notoriously tight-fisted Filch.

After a week of watching his chalk supplies steadily dwindle, Snape was unsurprised to enter his dungeon and find Hermione Granger seated at his desk. His own pen was scratching out a note on one of the bits of spare parchment he had left lying about, held by Hermione's white, translucent fingers.

"Please do make yourself at home, Miss Granger," he told her as he closed the door behind himself with an emphatic thump.

"Thank you, sir," she returned evenly, ignoring his sarcasm. "I'll be done in just a moment."

He watched as the ink flowed, a bit blotchy in places, but undeniably Hermione's handwriting. "I do hope you've addressed that to Minerva McGonagall, and not myself."

"I have," Hermione told him. "Though I would like to be able to tell her you've already agreed to let me sit the Potions N.E.W.T."

He thought about it for a moment, but she had fulfilled the condition he'd set. "You may," he allowed finally. Her hair swung down as she leaned over her letter again, but it did not quite hide the smile as she added another line.

Minerva McGonagall, however, was not smiling when she cornered Severus Snape in his dungeons a few hours later, brandishing the same scrap of parchment. "Severus Snape! What is the meaning of this?"

He glanced up at it, and then returned his attention to the potions journal he had been reading. "It appears to be a piece of parchment, Professor McGonagall," he replied. Is there any other bit of divination I can perform for you?"

"Don't start with me, Severus. You're far too old to be developing a sense of humor."

"Minerva, you could not possibly appreciate my humor. You're a Gryffindor, through and through." He gave up attempting to read and leaned back in his chair, oblivious to the glare the older witch directed at him. Sometimes, teasing Minerva was more fun than pulling a cat's tail.

Her lips pursed in displeasure. "What is the meaning of this letter? I can tell you one thing, Professor, it's in very, very poor taste."

The scrap of parchment was thrust under his nose, giving him no choice but to take it or find out exactly what it did taste like. Once opened, it was exactly as he'd seen it being written, with the addition of Hermione's neat signature at the bottom.

"It appears to be a request to take the N.E.W.T.s. Surely this isn't beyond your scope as deputy headmistress of Hogwarts."

"This isn't a joking matter, Severus."

Snape raised an eyebrow at her choice of words. "No, it isn't. In fact, I have cause to know exactly how sincere that request is, but if you don't believe me, ask the author." He rose from his chair and peered into the shadowy ceiling of his dungeon. "Miss Granger!" he called sharply. "Show yourself, if you please."

Several long moments passed, while the head of Gryffindor fumed and her Slytherin counterpart refused to acknowledge her temper. He called once again, and just as Professor McGonagall inhaled to deliver a sharp set-down, Hermione rushed through the heavy wooden door and came to a halt in front of him.

"I beg your pardon, Professor – Professors," she amended, seeing McGonagall standing in the room as well.

Snape nodded at her apology and held out the parchment. "This is your note, Miss Granger? Stating you wish to take the N.E.W.T. examinations?"

"Yes, sir," she replied, trying very hard not to get her hopes up. McGonagall's expression was not encouraging, and her next words were even less so.

"It's out of the question."

"Why?" asked Hermione, at the same moment Snape said "Why not?"

Minerva looked pained. "It's obscene, Severus. Hermione Granger is dead."

"That's apparent to a first year," he responded. "And she's right here, why don't you address her yourself?"

"She's a ghost. She cannot sit the N.E.W.T.s with her classmates."

Snape's dark eyes narrowed in irritation. "I hold in my hand ample evidence that she is capable of writing her answers. As for her classmates, they've certainly gone, and I'd hardly say I was sorry to see the back of them. But loathe them or love them, I still saw to their education."

"Don't try to take the high road on that one, Severus, you'll fall off," McGonagall snapped. "The ghost of Hermione Granger cannot take the N.E.W.T.s for a variety or reasons, the most significant of which is the fact that she cannot perform the practicals." She gave Hermione's pale form a dour look. "She does not possess a wand, and she's incapable of magic even if she did. It's out of the question."

Satisfied she'd adequately squelched the subject, Professor McGonagall gathered the edge of her robes with an angry snap. "Now, if you've finished with this taradiddle, I'll be in my office attending to the real business of this institution." The heavy door squealed on its hinges until it closed with a definite thud behind the departing witch, and a stunned silence fell in the room.

Mystified by his counterpart's reaction to a fairly simple request, Severus reclaimed his chair and his journal. The faint sound of his movement seemed to bring Hermione back to herself. She turned her head towards him and smiled wistfully over her shoulder.

"Thank you, sir, for trying. I very much appreciate your efforts." She abruptly faded from view, but not before he saw her hand pressed to her mouth, as if to stifle a sob. He heard only the faintest rustle headed towards the heavy dungeon door, accompanied by another sound that might have been muffled sobbing, or it might have been just a draft in the hall.

Frowning slightly, he crumpled the note in his hand and cast it into the empty fireplace before going back to his reading.

&&&&&

In the midst of grading the first homework of the new school year, Severus Snape gradually became aware of the pale form hovering at the edge of his field of vision. Rather than acknowledge it, he continued his work and did his best to ignore whoever it was. Some of the ghosts simply liked to watch the 'live ones,' and to take any notice of them at all was to invite inane conversations regarding the most trivial aspects of life. Professor Binns, in Snape's opinion, was one of the worst, and could drone on for hours about something as stupid as the flavor of tea, until his conversational counterpart was willing to commit either murder or suicide to escape.

"Severus. If I might have a word with you," came a baritone voice finally.

Snape didn't answer immediately, other to hold up a single finger; he was having a hard enough time deciphering the poor grammar and even worse handwriting without the additional difficulty of holding a conversation. Besides, ghosts were by and large immensely patient beings and none more so, for him at least, than the resident spirit of Slytherin House.

When he'd finished, Snape scrawled a short condemnation of sloppy thinking in the margins and gave the paper, in his opinion, a very generous score of fifty-eight.

"Of course, Your Excellency. I'm at your disposal."

The Bloody Baron drifted closer to the desk, his silver stained robes glowing in the light from the candle on the corner of Snape's desk.

"I wished to discuss something with you," began the Baron, a far cry from his normally menacing demeanor. Snape had learned many of his own intimidating tactics from observing the Slytherin ghost. "It's of a somewhat delicate nature."

"Delicate?" questioned Severus.

"It has to do with our newest resident," the Baron elaborated.

"Don't. DON'T," Snape interrupted firmly, putting out a hand to stop any further discussion. "I don't want to hear it."

"Miss Granger is constantly asking questions," the Baron pressed in an aggrieved voice. "Every day, she keeps asking! And for every inquiry we answer, she thinks of two more! And then she wants to know why, and why not, and what if!"

"Welcome to my hell, Baron," Snape told him without sympathy. "She's been in my class for years. Now she's your problem, and I wish you joy of her."

"Surely you can give me some advice," the ghost insisted desperately. "She's nearly as troublesome as Peeves, if in a completely different way. She says she's even considering writing a book about her death and what it's like to be a ghost! If she does that, the rest of us here will be the laughingstock of the afterlife!"

"My only suggestion is to keep her busy," Snape replied. "She was a Gryffindor, and as such is susceptible to a sense of duty. Put her in charge of Peeves. That ought to keep her out of your hair, and too busy to be an embarrassment."

"She hasn't the power yet to handle that monstrosity," the Baron objected. "Was she really that bothersome when she was alive?"

Snape tapped his finger against his quill, paying no attention to the fine spatters of ink it left on his papers. "She was relentless, in both her personal quests and in her studies," he said after a moment. "Her desire to learn was a craving that could not be satisfied. Still is, it seems. Interesting."

"What's interesting?"

He shrugged carelessly. "That she still hungers to know, even though she should be beyond those things." Almost instantly, Severus knew that was the wrong thing to say. The temperature in the room dropped dramatically, and an unnatural draft caused the candles to gutter and flicker alarmingly.

"We ghosts are not beyond anything, sir," the Baron said sharply, his voice colder than the room. "Just because we no longer eat, it doesn't mean we don't hunger. I'd give a great deal to taste food once more, or to touch a living being. If the chit wants to learn, I'll not stand in her way. I was simply asking your advice. I should have known you'd have no better idea of how to handle her now than you did when she was alive."

With a cold rush of air, the Baron charged through Snape's desk and the wall beyond, leaving a whirlwind of paper and bad temper behind. Severus raised a single eyebrow at the shambles left in the Baron's wake, watching as the last scraps of parchment drifted to the floor. Unconsciously, his fingers tapped on the quill again, leaving more fine spatters of ink on the papers as he thought.

&&&&&

"Stop right there!" screeched Filch, breaking into a shambling trot as he pursued Hermione down the hall. "Madame Pince says you ain't to be taking those books!"

Serenely ignoring the caretaker and the scattering students who were leaving the library just before curfew, Hermione held her prize high out of Filch's reach and headed for the stairs. Only the doorframes gave her any difficulty, when she was forced to drop far enough down from the arched roof supports to allow her solid prize to go through the doorway. If there was a way to make whatever tangible object she held intangible, she had yet to discover it.

The months since her unfortunate interview with Minerva McGonagall had been hard to endure. Dying before her final exams had been annoying, but to have that prize literally within her grasp once more and then have it taken away was galling and painful. In an attempt to find another subject to occupy herself, Hermione had thrown herself into researching what it meant, exactly, to be a ghost in a wizarding society. That had proved to be less than successful, as most of the other spirits in the castle and in Hogsmeade were appalled when asked any personal questions and irritated by her general surveys.

"You'll learn," was the only answer she got from the Gray Lady, which was at least more polite than some of the other retorts. Sir Nicholas had merely looked embarrassed by the queries, and had swiftly moved on to ask Hermione about a few things, including her plans for the next few evenings and was she interested in accompanying him to the next Headless Polo match?

Hermione had fallen back on the often used excuse to go the library, which had been perfectly understandable as a student but not so much as a ghost. And then Ron Weasley's words had come back to haunt her, as it were. The library was full of books she hadn't read, and now she had no curfew, no roommates to complain if she left the candles burning late, and no such thing as needing a teacher's permission to access the Restricted Section.

Madame Pince had been speechless when Hermione first announced she was checking out a book, standing still with her mouth gaping open as Hermione recorded her name in the big ledger on Pince's desk. The witch had recovered from her shock enough to fervently protest, in strident whispers, all of Hermione's subsequent checkouts. In her efforts to deny Hermione access to the library, Pince had threatened to bring down the wrath of both the Bloody Baron and the Headmaster. Those threats had only strengthened Hermione's determination to continue, though the most support the librarian had been able to garner thus far was that of Argus Filch.

Hermione left Filch sputtering impotently at the bottom of the stairs as she flew straight up into the dim reaches of the staircase. The windows at the very top were open, letting in the late fall air and allowing one to see out to the stars and the rising moon. The landing at the very top of the huge shaft was barely large enough to hold a small bench, and only occasionally would the rickety stairs that lead to it deign to be in place. Hermione had never discovered it while she was alive, a fact that she regretted. It was the perfect retreat for someone who wanted to read alone. Now, it served her that purpose, and although she didn't need the tiny lantern hanging from a simple wrought-iron holder on the wall, Hermione loved the warm, cozy glow it cast as she read.

It was also a wonderful place from which to watch the sunrise over the eastern mountains. In life, Hermione had always enjoyed a sunset. Now, with her existence topsy-turvy, her days nights and her nights days, the sunrise marked the end of her alert period. Many a time she watched the sun rise and was comforted with the endless repetition.

This night, however, Hermione was having trouble concentrating. Although it was just past curfew, she had the oddest feeling she was supposed to be somewhere. It was a sensation she had first experienced when Ron or Harry had wanted to talk to her, once she became a ghost, and one that came over her now and again for no discernable reason. Shrugging to herself, she left the book on the stone bench and went off in search of whoever had wanted her.

No sooner had she appeared in Snape's dungeon than he snapped, "You're late. Now come here and make yourself useful." His table was covered with ingredients and several cauldrons, some already bubbling away.

"How can I be useful?" she asked, even as she drifted to where he'd indicated she should be. "I can't do anything."

"You can read, can't you? Read this – I need both hands free."

Snape lay an ancient book open in a heavily carved holder and began chopping something yellow into even finer bits than it already was. Ginger, and something else, going by the smell. Hermione wondered at her own ability to smell, even as she focused on the Latin text in front of her and began to read the preparation instructions for whatever it was Snape was working on.

Severus Snape kept his hands busy on the chopping and kept his mind from dwelling on the wisdom of what he was doing, even as listened to her steady voice declaiming the ancient text of Dioscoride's herbal. De Materia Medica was a bit stiff for most seventh year students, but he doubted Hermione Granger would have any trouble with it. In this, she did not disappoint him, though she stumbled once or twice on the verb tenses.

After that page, Snape began a steady barrage of questions on the properties of the ingredients he'd just added and demanded she either confirm or refute Dioscoride's allegations. After the herbals, he moved on to animals, peppering her with questions as to the effectiveness and dangers of feathers, spines, quills, and other bits and pieces of every beast that crawled, flew or slithered.

Afraid to guess or speculate, terrified to hope, Hermione gave answer after answer while she stirred, chopped, and grated. The section on minerals gave her a bit of trouble, but she managed to remember more than she thought she would have. It was only when Snape asked her the incantation to transform a gelatinous brew into a powder that she froze.

"I can't perform the spell," she confessed.

"I didn't ask you to perform it," he reminded her testily. "Just tell me which spell."

She did so, and then as an afterthought described the movements necessary. Snape grunted absently as he scribbled onto a piece of parchment. Moments later he slid it across the worktable to her, wordlessly ordering her to take it.

The sheet held several problems on it, including one incredibly tricky issue involving cutting a potion recipe by odd ratios, and several ingredient substitution puzzles. It took nearly an hour to finish.

In all, over four hours had passed before Hermione handed in her paper and stood to one side of Snape's desk while he looked over her answers. In a sharp voice he ordered her to see to the potions they'd begun, giving her no choice but to do as she was told. Several of the concoctions were nearly complete, so she finished them up, turning off the flames (though the round knobs were a bit tricky to master) and adding the final ingredients in others.

Though she tried to concentrate on the tasks at hand, Hermione found herself dwelling on the exam, if it was indeed an exam. She hadn't studied, she wasn't prepared for this. The complete inanity occurred to her of taking an exam that would do no good, get her in to no college, and she found herself debating the wisdom of having stayed through the examination.

"Congratulations, Miss Granger," came Snape's deep voice, startling Hermione out of her circling thoughts. "I'm taking off marks for the incantation you are unable to cast. The balance of your examination, however, is sufficiently high to overcome this." He was still at his desk, straightening papers and carrying on as if it weren't two in the morning.

"Sir?" she questioned, not quite able to believe what she was hearing.

Snape's face assumed the same patient grimace he used on particularly dense students. "You've passed your Potions N.E.W.T., Miss Granger. With flying colors, as some idiots would say. I'll have your score added to your transcripts." He glanced up to see if she had at last comprehended his meaning.

Slightly disconcerted by the sight before him, Severus felt his own mouth lift in unthinking reflex to the amazingly happy smile Hermione gave him as she slowly faded from view. "Thank you, Professor Snape!" came her disembodied voice.

"You're welcome, Miss Granger," Severus managed, still stunned. He had never realized that a ghost could, quite literally, glow with happiness.


	5. Chapter 5

Winter break vastly reduced the number of children wandering loose through the halls of Hogwarts, which allowed Severus Snape to return from his rounds by ten o'clock. Normally that hour would have him still combing the castle's more popular snogging locations, but for now, every tousle-headed moppet was safe in his or her bed, and Severus was free to do as he pleased. He was also omitting the additional circuit he usually made near midnight. For once the little monsters could run free and suck each others' necks without his looming disapproval and generous distribution of detentions. After the last twenty-four hours, he felt he deserved a break from the routine.

Almost exactly twenty-four hours before he had been summoned to Voldemort's side, and spent the ensuing hours watching as fledgling Death Eaters receive the Dark Mark and vow their allegiance. In return they were spoon-fed a custom blend of ambition, superiority, and self-righteous justifications along with a generous dollop of flattery and propaganda.

He was getting too old for all this, Severus reflected. Never mind the back-stabbing and tension and the political maneuvering, just standing in a clearing in the middle of the woods in December was more than he really willing to endure. A good dose of Cruciatus would have been preferable to five hours in a damp, biting wind. His joints wanted a hot soak and he was reasonably sure he was coming down with a head cold.

A potion took care of the sniffles, and a judiciously small measure of brandy placated his aching bones. What little his conscience bothered him over the dereliction of his duties as late night hall monitor was mollified by the small number of students in the castle and an overwhelming sense of ennui towards the concepts of duty and responsibility.

Tonight would be dedicated to one of his few pleasures – translating a potions text sent to him by a colleague from South America. Discovered in an Aztec wizard's well-preserved laboratory, it was written in an archaic alphabet. The language, however, was Latin, surprisingly, and a strangely formal Latin at that. The combination of those two factors indicated the text might contain encoded information not apparent to a superficial examination. While the puzzle itself was intriguing, the main attraction lay in the fact that it had absolutely nothing to do with Voldemort and the knife-edge existence that was his life. Of course, he'd rather curl up in front of a fire with a snifter of fine brandy and a woman who knew how to do more with her mouth than giggle like the inane youth of both sexes that infested Hogwarts. While he possessed an ample supply of brandy, the women had unfortunately been increasingly rare and practically non-existent in the past few years.

Dismissing the errant fantasy of intelligent, conversant women from his thoughts, Severus lit several lamps with a wave of his wand. Another swish summoned several reference tomes to the large table he used for his own demonstration work in the classroom, along with blank parchment, several pots of ink and a fresh quill. Finally, with something akin to reverence, he retrieved a narrow wooden box from a locked drawer in his desk and carried it to his worktable. The tiny brass hinges were tarnished to a pale green, as was the clasp, but it reluctantly gave way and opened. Careful of the scroll's fragile state, he unrolled it slowly and weighted the curly edges with several large, smooth round blobs of glass that both magnified and held down the delicate parchment with their weight.

In the high reaches of the dungeon ceiling, several feet over Severus Snape's head, Hermione Granger silently peered down at the scroll and wished she dared come a little closer to read it. The writing was cramped and the quill that had penned it must have come from a hummingbird. For a moment she wished Snape would simply cast a translation spell, but she supposed his caution was only reasonable. It would be a small matter to cast a self-immolation spell on a parchment that one did not want the wrong eyes to read; if there were any booby-traps in the text, Snape would be less likely than most to set them off.

Content to wait, Hermione let herself waft to one side while Snape manually translated the coded text to standard Latin, apparently preserving the formal voice of the text. She could tell when his concentration deepened to the point when the drafty chill in the room made no impression on him, as the guttering lamp flames were shielded with an absently-voiced "_Protegera_."

From her vantage point, she could see the evolving translation in Snape's distinctive handwriting. The recipe, if it was a recipe, appeared sloppy and lacked any measurements. It also included a huge number of personal anecdotes on a fairly boring year spent in an Italian monastery. Hermione barely stopped herself from snorting in response to some of the pithy observations Snape muttered to himself as he faithfully copied the parchment.

Afraid he'd heard her, Hermione watched the man carefully for signs he suspected her presence. He'd stopped shouting at her every time he found her in his classroom, and in return she'd done her best to respect his territorial claim. He never looked up, however, and his long body was still, as close to relaxed as it could be considering he was hunched awkwardly over the table. It was a bit odd, actually, as Snape normally radiated an intense, barely restrained tension as he paced the long halls and corridors of Hogwarts.

His hands, she noted, were steady when writing, but tended to tremble just a bit when he reached to refresh the ink in his quill. His narrow shoulders drooped, and his oily hair was tucked behind one ear. From her vantage point, Hermione could see the fine dark strands were thinning where he combed it out from a center point.

She could also see an old scar atop his head, disappearing into the black curtain. He reminded her, in that moment, of a wild animal stressed to the breaking point, where the fur fell out and the animal had trouble processing what little nourishment it could obtain, simply because its body was suffering from the tension and anxiety of a highly dangerous environment.

No member of the Order of the Phoenix had any illusions about the danger Severus Snape faced in his endeavors to spy on the Death Eaters who followed Voldemort. It was just that any sympathy that might have arisen was immediately suffocated by the man's unpleasantness. For the first time, Hermione wondered it that might have been deliberate, somehow. Surely it wasn't possible for any one person to be so unrelentingly beastly to everyone he knew.

And it was not in keeping with the type of person who would mourn the death of a student by keeping a midnight vigil at the foot of her funeral bier. Although the image was in keeping with the medieval mindset of the average pureblood wizard, Snape of all people would not have done such a thing for the appearance of it. According to the Harry and Ron, it had been well past midnight when they'd seen Snape kneeling at her casket, his hands on the white-draped sawhorse supports and his face against the backs of his hands. While she doubted if he had been so emotional as to weep for her, the simple fact that he'd even been there, out of the sight of others, hinted that there was more to Snape than the sum of his sneers and snide remarks.

Or perhaps he had merely been making his peace, coming to terms with his role in her death.

Sighing mentally, Hermione rose up through the stone ceiling of the dungeon to the hallways above. Analyzing Snape was a sure way to drive oneself insane, and regardless of the fact that she apparently had centuries ahead of herself, Hermione doubted there was time enough to unravel that particular man.

&&&&&

Over the past few weeks, a judicious culling from the bits and pieces left by forgetful students had left Hermione with a small collection of parchment, a fairly decent quill, and a pot of ink. She did not want to rely on Snape's good graces, assuming he had any, but scavenging was actually a diverting way to spend her time on a long winter night. It was also fun to read over the work some of the students left out, and occasionally far too tempting to write small notes in the margins. She never remained to see the expressions of those whose work she corrected, but her imagination left her giggling many times.

The abandoned third floor corridor held several pieces of forgotten furniture, and she appropriated one to use as her writing desk. She'd put off writing to Ron and Harry, but finally decided she'd rather know how their lives were progressing, even if she had no part in those lives. Her first paragraphs gently asked if Ron had made a decision on his career, and then how Harry was doing in his Auror training. Also included was the rather obvious news that she'd learned to move things, either because or in spite of the help she'd gotten, and the fact that she had finally taken her Potions N.E.W.T. and had not gone 'poof.'

Once she'd finished her letter, Hermione set off for the Owlrey to dispatch it. That task, however, was much harder than she anticipated. First, she needed to carry the solid sheet of parchment through the castle, sometimes sliding it under a door that had been left closed for very good reason. Then, once she'd gotten it to the high room where Hogwarts kept the school owls, she was confronted with an entirely different problem.

"Will you please come DOWN!" Hermione hissed through gritted teeth.

The owl she addressed merely blinked in consternation before launching itself from its perch and flying to the far end of the room. This was by no means surprising, as the last five owls she'd addressed had done the same thing. No matter which bird Hermione approached, it ruffled its feathers, bated wildly and refused to hold still.

Swearing did nothing to help the situation, but Hermione did that anyway. She was giving serious consideration to the notion of going to find a teacher or a student to do this for her, but did not really want to go that route. Of all the students who had known her alive, Ginny Weasley was the only one who would speak to her, and even then the girl was noticeably uncomfortable. Hermione did not want to presume on the friendship they'd once shared, and did not press the issue with her. Not that it mattered anyway, as Ginny was currently home on holiday.

Wanting to screech with frustration, Hermione was preparing to approach another owl when a derisive caw caught her attention. Rising up, she saw a flash of black among the tawny tones of the owls clustered on the rafters. At the end of the room, a large raven turned one beady eye on her, then the other.

"I don't suppose you'd consider taking a letter for me?" she asked, not really expecting an answer. In response, the large black bird shifted its wings diffidently before hopping off its perch and gliding towards her. It banked abruptly and shot towards the big window, only to land on the sill and gave her a look that plainly said "What are you waiting for?"

The black plumage and utter disdain of the raven's attitude gave her a horrid feeling. "Five Galleons says you belong to Professor Snape," she commented, resigned to disappointment. The bird gave another scornful call.

"All right, you work for him, don't you?" she amended. "You don't look like you'd agree to be owned."

The shiny black head bobbed once, and then the bird held out a scaly yellow leg as if conferring a great favor.

"If he yells at me, I'm going to tell him it was your idea," she warned the bird as she tied on the message. "I suppose you already know who this goes to?"

"Potter," croaked the raven in a fair imitation of the Potion Master's usual contemptuous uttering of that name.

"Yes," Hermione confirmed while trying to choke back a laugh. "Harry Potter, at the Weasley family home. The Burrow," she iterated.

"Weasley," sneered the bird, then launched itself out the window, its rapid caws sounding like laughter.

&&&&&

The end of term flurry and furious studying this year had not been conspicuous enough for Hermione to really notice, and the abrupt emptiness of the school caught her by surprise. A great deal of her time had been appropriated by the Bloody Baron, who preferred to be address as either 'Baron' or, preferably, as 'Your Excellency.' Hermione had found the Baron had a few other nicknames, whispered among the ghosts he ordered about, and she found herself using them more than once as he had enlisted her assistance in various projects in both the school and the surrounding countryside.

One memorable trip had to do with the vandals who had plagued the cemetery in a small Muggle village several miles from Hogsmeade. The local Muggle ghosts were on friendly terms with their neighbors and had turned to the spirits of Hogwarts for help. The Baron and Sir Nicholas had judged it an excellent introduction into the fine art of haunting and had taken Hermione with them to roust the intruders. The intruders had turned out to be nothing more than a group of teenagers who thought drinking beer and smoking endless cigarettes atop the family crypts was their idea of an evening's entertainment.

The ghosts had waited, watching patiently until the boys were knocking over a headstone, before launching a counter-attack. Shrieking and wailing, they appeared to the young men, who had immediately screamed and run full tilt out of the graveyard.

The Baron was vindictive enough to reach through the bodies of the retreating teens, giving them a chill they'd never forget, even though he complained for hours afterward of the unpleasant blast of heat he'd received in return. Hermione and Sir Nicholas rolled their eyes at each other while the Baron grumbled and shook his hand, but they agreed with his notion that the three of them should maintain a watch on the graveyard for several more nights, in case one of the vandals should pluck up his courage to return.

Sure enough, the sun was just going down one long summer evening two days later when a skinny boy heaved himself over the old stone wall. He stalked over to their usual gathering point, littered with cigarette butts, and defiantly lit up.

Encouraged by Nick's energetic sideways head twitches and the Baron's shooing motions, Hermione drifted towards the tree and the red glow of the cigarette. She circled the boy thoughtfully, noticing how her presence, albeit invisible, made the already tense teenager even more twitchy. She ran an experimental finger up the leather-clad back, and the gooey heat that clung to her hand was worth it when her victim startled violently and spun around.

The back of his hand bore an indecipherable tattoo, but it was the same symbol she'd seen chiseled into several of the stone markers here in the graveyard. Most of Hermione's sympathy dried up at that moment; the one thing she hated most was a person who victimized those who could not defend themselves.

Sweeping closer, Hermione let her unearthly chill hit the young man fully, who let out a sound somewhere between a squeak and a squeal. The fear poured out of his body, swamping Hermione with intense waves of emotion, and she suddenly understood why some ghosts would enjoy haunting. Fear and adrenaline swamped her body, intense emotions she had not felt since her death buffeting her like a high wind. The emotions as well as the power, to do to others what had once been done to them, to terrify and intimidate, was intoxicating, and she could easily see how that dual pleasure would be an almost irresistible temptation. Draco Malfoy, for instance, would love it.

Abruptly, Hermione decided to end the game. It wasn't exactly enjoyable, really, and the idea that she was indulging in the same kind of petty game Malfoy would enjoy made it that much worse. What was she doing, if not victimizing someone who could not defend against themselves?

With that thought in mind, she circled in front of the young man again and made herself visible. "Those things will kill you, you know," she remarked conversationally to the teen, whose eyes became huge. His mouth worked soundlessly, which had the unfortunate effect of letting his cigarette drop down the open neck of the flannel shirt he wore beneath his jacket.

"Wha--ungh---OWW!" he shrieked, as the burning finally registered. He slapped at his chest violently, knocking the half-burned cigarette out of his clothes. "Shit!!"

"Watch your language," Hermione snapped. "You may be rude in your own home, young man, but this is my home and I'll thank you to stop leaving your trash here." It occurred to her that she was channeling Minerva McGonagall, but decided to go with it.

"You will tell your ruffian friends that they're not welcome in this graveyard until they're buried here," she told him in no uncertain terms. "And if they come back before then, they'll be very, very sorry!"

"Y-y-yes, ma'am," stuttered the boy. In a convulsive movement he retrieved the dead cigarette from the ground before breaking into a dead run for the gates of the cemetery and the road beyond.

"Excellent, Miss Granger," Nicholas said as he appeared beside her, clapping silently. "Very well done, indeed!"

The Baron shot a surly look at his compatriot as he materialized, but shrugged grudgingly. "Unorthodox, but apparently effective. Nice little streak of ruthlessness, and you've already mastered the skills of a poltergeist. Good show, all in all. You've got the instincts to be a first class ghost, Miss Granger."

Hermione murmured a thank-you but declined to delight in this surreal bit of praise.

Once they returned to Hogwarts, the Baron accepted her into the ranks and gave her some of the same assignments as the other ghosts. As she was not an official 'house' ghost, she was free from certain duties to the students. She was, however, asked to shadow Hagrid on some of his trips into the Forbidden Forest, especially when the centaurs had been seen lately. There wasn't much she could do to aid the gamekeeper if he were attacked by anything he couldn't handle, but she could at least go for help.

Other tasks included patrolling the halls some nights, a precaution started after the Chamber of Secrets fiasco years earlier. Hermione hated it when she was assigned hall duty will Myrtle; while most of the ghosts turned a blind eye to the student transgressions, the miserable little ghost was the worst tattletale and delighted in getting students caught out in whatever mischief they were up to.

With school out for the summer, however, some changes were made. Everyone was more alert, with an eye towards the inevitable outbreak of true war in the wizarding world. Even the ghosts were concerned, if only because they enjoyed a relatively sedate afterlife at Hogwarts and didn't want the current administration to change. Delores Umbridge's brief stint as Headmistress had been unsettling to many of the denizens of the castle, not just the living.

&&&&&

Hermione was up late, or rather, early, one afternoon as she flew pell-mell down the dungeon corridor and made a high, wide turn at full speed to blip through the wall of the Potions classroom. She streaked around the table legs, through the doorway to Snape's office and disappeared with a 'pop' into the side of his desk.

Severus lifted his head from where he leaned over a pile of notes atop his desk and stared at the empty classroom and the silent wall beyond the picket lines of upturned chairs on the workbenches. With a frown he moved his chair back a few inches and stared accusingly at the massive ebony desk.

One black eyebrow went up, while the other remained in a puzzled crease. Gingerly, he reached out and opened the top drawer. Glancing inside, he saw only quills, empty vials, bits and baubles and a wide variety of items confiscated from students.

The next drawer down, when he slid it out, was packed to the brim with Hermione Granger. Her ghostly form was tightly wedged in the wooden framework, and her face looked up at him as he peered down.

"Shut the drawer," she whispered urgently.

"What the DEVIL are you doing in my desk drawer?"

"Hiding. From Peeves," she elaborated. "The Headmaster has some important ministry guests this afternoon, and he asked us to keep Peeves out of the way."

Knowing he was going to regret asking, Severus did it anyway. "And you lurking in my desk drawer accomplishes this how, exactly?"

"Peeves tag," she replied sensibly. "Two or three of us do our best to annoy Peeves, and then let him chase us in relays. As soon as he comes close to one of us, we go to ground and then another shows himself. There'll be hell to pay, later, but it keeps Peeves from knocking over the suits of armor when Mad-Eye Moody is wandering the halls."

Severus could just imagine what that notoriously jumpy ex-Auror would do if a few hundred pounds of steel were to suddenly crash to the floor behind him. Whoever he was escorting from the Ministry would be lucky to live through the flurry of hexes the man would no doubt throw about wildly.

Before he could reply, Sir Nicholas floated into the room. "I say, sir, have you seen Miss Granger?"

He opened his mouth to say yes, only to be distracted by the sight of Hermione's head shaking wildly. He shut the drawer on her promptly.

"No, actually," he lied smoothly. "I believe she streaked by a bit ago, but I haven't seen her for several minutes now."

Nick gave the Potions Master a half bow and tilted his head politely. It made a faint squelching noise as it separated from his neck. "Thank you, kind sir. I'm sure I'll find her very soon now."

Once the ghostly cavalier had gone, Severus opened the drawer once more. "I thought you were hiding from Peeves," he asked mildly. A stern flick of his finger indicated his desire that she vacate his drawer immediately.

"I was," Hermione replied as she smoked her way out of his desk, although she peered over the top of the desk to be sure it was safe before extricating herself completely. "Thank you, Professor. I really didn't want to talk to Sir Nicholas just now."

"Dare I hope Sir Nicholas will refrain from challenging me for keeping him from his lady love?" Severus drawled as he watched her brushing the creases from her robes. They weren't exactly the school uniform any longer, but the overly theatrical dags were gone as well.

Hermione sighed heavily. "So you've noticed, too."

To her surprise, Snape gave a dry snort. "Gryffindors aren't known for their subtlety, Miss Granger. I doubt it's even in their vocabulary."

"He is very sweet," Hermione admitted. "Unfortunately, he's not really in love with me. He's just likes the idea of falling in love with me. I rather recognize the symptoms, Professor," she added, somewhat sadly.

Severus only hmmed in reply as he returned his attention to the mass of paper on his desk, though he knew what she was talking about. He'd seen in many times in his tenure at Hogwarts.

"What is all that?" Hermione asked judiciously. Snape could be vicious when she interrupted his train of thought, although he seemed to have adapted to her occupation of his classroom.

"Student papers," Severus answered absently.

"They're in German."

"Yes, of course they are. They're from Durmstrang." He glared up at the ceiling accusingly, in the general direction of Dumbledore's office. "One of the Headmaster's more torturous ideas on sharing educational innovations among the institutions of magical learning."

Wisely, Hermione refrained from commenting. It did sound like something Professor Dumbledore would dream up, and never mind the proprietary feelings some teachers felt over their subject matters. Minerva McGonagall would likely spit like a cat if she'd been asked to share her lesson plans with Beauxbatons' Transfigurations professor.

"It sounds like a project to give out on detention," Hermione observed.

"It is July, Miss Granger," Snape told her, buried in his papers. "There's a shortage of students just now."

"Well, when I first realized I was doomed to spend eternity here in the dungeons it was a bit like eternal detention," she said with a quiet giggle in her voice. "I might as well be useful."

"How very generous of you," Severus drawled, although he did not miss the echo of the words he'd once spoken to her. "Not that it has anything to do with exempting you from dealing with Peeves."

"Exactly. And if I'm busy working for you, the Baron will let me skive off Peeves duty."

"Not to mention avoiding your paramour."

Hermione smiled brightly, and Severus made an exasperated noise. "Very well. Start with those cauldrons first, though," he ordered, indicating the far wall of his classroom, where forgotten cauldrons clustered below the utility sink like a crop of malignant black mushrooms. "Half the fifth year students leave them when they escape my classes at last, and they're always crusted beyond belief."

Hermione groaned, but stifled it when Snape gave her a sharp glance. "I'm dead, and I'm still scrubbing cauldrons," she groused.

"But you're useful, which is a state most people never obtain. Unless they're Hufflepuffs," he added caustically.

Rolling up her sleeves, Hermione snorted in appreciation but headed for the sinks.

&&&&&

"Miss Granger?"

Hurrying towards the Great Hall on the first of September, anxious not to miss the Sorting, Hermione nearly did not hear the voice that called out to her. In her abrupt stop, she missed the turn in the hallway and plowed straight through the wall, re-emerging several feet further down.

"Yes?" she replied with as much dignity as she could manage while she floated back towards the Headmaster.

"I nearly didn't recognize you, Hermione," Dumbledore told her, adjusting his glasses and giving her a brief visual inspection. The faded blue eyes still retained their twinkle, though it had faded in the past few years. "You've changed quite a bit."

"Have I?" Hermione glanced down at her robes. The droopy sock and schoolgirl oxfords had been banished to wherever ghost clothing went, to be replaced by demure slippers. The hair that had once been the bane of her existence lay in tame ringlets and curls down her back, pulled back from the crown of her head and fastened with a clip that existed because she told it to exist.

"You have, and I must say you look very charming tonight. For just one moment, I thought you might be the Gray Lady. As you know, she is the best dressed ghost within these halls."

Hermione could not help but laugh at the Headmaster's subtle joke; the Gray Lady was known for being somewhat vain of her appearance. "Why, thank you, kind sir," she responded, dropping a curtsy in mid-air.

"Actually, Miss Granger, it is I who wish to thank you," he said solemnly. "I'm quite aware of the difficulties you've faced in the years since your death. Your friends have left… and I'm very sorry to see that Professor McGonagall has been unable to accept your new status."

"Rigid thinking – it's a Gryffindor trait, isn't it?" Hermione parroted Snape, but smiled faintly to take the sting out of her words. "I cannot say it doesn't hurt, because it does, but I do understand. Really," she assured the Headmaster.

"Yes, I must admit you're right. Minerva has always been a bit inflexible, though she is as staunch an ally as anyone could ever wish for."

Hermione nodded in agreement. "I've missed her advice. She always gave such sensible suggestions."

"She did finally agree to add your Potions score to your final transcripts, you know," Dumbledore told her. "Severus brought it up in every staff meeting for weeks."

"Did he really?"

"Yes. He finally threatened to go over her head and file a formal complaint to myself," the Headmaster added.

"Oh. That was – nice," Hermione hedged. "I thought he'd probably submit it, but I wasn't sure it would really happen."

Dumbledore peered over his glasses. "Severus Snape has always been a man of his word, Hermione. I can think of only a very few times when he has not kept a promise he's made. He's also not a man to disregard the efforts you went to in overcoming the difficulties you faced in your current condition."

"He never did before," Hermione murmured.

"I think you misunderstand the difference," the old man told her. "Severus appreciates the struggle for excellence, not those to whom success comes easily."

Hermione frowned. Privately, she wondered if that was one of the reasons Snape had hated the Marauders so; Harry's father and Sirius Black had apparently been the golden boys of Hogwarts during their school years. It wasn't a thought she wanted to share with the Headmaster, considering those two men were now dead. Instead, she focused on the fact that Dumbledore was speaking to her as an adult, rather than the child she had been. It was gratifying to be given that honor, since she no longer felt like a student, and very much appreciated not being treated as one. With that in mind, she chose her next words with care.

"You care about him, don't you?"

"Certainly. I once failed Severus, to my great shame, and nearly lost him. Since he returned I've done my best to treat him like a son. Unfortunately, there are things a son does not always wish to discuss with his father. Which is why, Miss Granger, I'm very grateful that he has another person to talk to."

"I know really think I'm someone he talks to. He orders me around, and he shouts at me, but we seldom really talk about anything."

"That is more than he's had in a very long time," Dumbledore assured her. "Your death hit him harder than you know, Miss Granger. He made a vow to protect the students in this school."

"Harry and Ron told me he mourned for me," she admitted quietly. "It would be easier if he would show that part of himself to the world."

"Perhaps," came the Headmaster's non-committal reply. "Perhaps he does not realize that part of himself really exists. As you have no doubt discovered, the way you perceive yourself is not always how others see you. I myself, for example, am always rather surprised to see that old man in the mirror each morning."

Hermione giggled, as he had intended.

"Now, Miss Granger, I think we'd best get moving. We can't have a Sorting without the Headmaster in attendance. What would the students say?"

&&&&&

Once the school year started, Hermione noticed there were some differences in her status as a ghost. It had now been more than two years since her death, and that fact along with the change in her appearance kept the students from remembering that she had once been a part of their number. The newer students especially were more inclined to appeal to her for help.

She found herself giving advice to many of the First Years, such as directions to their classrooms, or the bathrooms, and the one thing they needed to learn immediately, which was to never, ever trust Peeves. "He's pure mischief and bad temper, all in one," she told them, and the small children all nodded gravely, wide-eyed and wary.

Additional visitors to the castle came that fall, most having to do with the struggle against Lord Voldemort. Some, however, were not visiting to be helpful. Some weeks after Severus Snape had finally finished classifying and documenting the potion that had cost Hermione her life, the Ministry of Magic descended on Dumbledore to investigate this possible breach of ethical behavior.

More than a little interested in the outcome of the meeting, Hermione settled in Dumbledore's office and listened while the wily Headmaster plied his visitors with tea, lemon sherbets, and his own brand of daffy charm. Once or twice she caught him looking straight at her, even though she remained invisible, but he made no indication he wished her to leave. Snape, seated to one side of the room, caught his superior glancing in Hermione's corner and frowned thoughtfully, but did not bring up the subject in conversation.

After extensive arguing, the suspicious officials were placated and finally agreed it was in the best interests of public health and education to have the deadly potion thoroughly researched. Rather than ending the inquisition, however, the one witch in the group, who had been the first to dismiss the charges against Snape, immediately began question Dumbledore over his plans to resist He Who Must Not Be Named. The Headmaster was finally forced to claim Ministry secrecy to stop the woman's non-stop barrage. The witch bristled and tried to imply that, as a member of the Ministry, she was entitled to know everything he had planned.

Hermione was certain she would have hexed the woman ages ago and had done with it, but Dumbledore managed to foist her off on Snape as he escorted the other members of the group towards the front hall. Hermione trailed behind, barely listening, as the woman extolled the shortcomings of the soft-bellied fools running the Ministry, and how much better things would run if they, fellow Slytherins, had charge of government.

She paid no particular attention as Snape murmured, "Yes, of course, Madame Fitz Herbert."

"That's Hornby-Fitz Herbert," the bombastic woman retorted. "The Hornby family goes back nearly as far as yours does, Snape. Show a little respect."

The name rattled around Hermione's mind for a long moment before settling with a plunk in the middle of her consciousness. With an abrupt pop, she materialized and confronted the witch.

"Your name is Hornby? As in Olive Hornby? The same Olive Hornby that used to attend here, some fifty years ago?"

The dumpy woman drew herself up. "I am," she answered proudly. "And what could you possibly care? I don't remember you being a ghost here in my time, but I hadn't at that time learned to pay attention to such trivialities."

Hermione's eyes narrowed for a fraction of a moment before she smiled sweetly. "Would you spare a few moments of your time and wait for me?" she asked, gritting her teeth with the effort of being friendly. "Professor Snape will wait with you, I think. Do you mind, Professor?"

"Not at all," Severus answered, throwing Hermione a sharp glance that as much as said it had better be good, whatever it was.

Hermione plunged through the castle until she reached the girl's defunct bathroom. "Myrtle!" she called sharply, listening for a gurgle in the pipes. The water swirled out onto the floor from Myrtle's stall.

"What do you want?" Myrtle asked sullenly from inside the toilet, her voice echoing off the ceramic fixtures.

"There's someone here at Hogwarts you need to see," Hermione said firmly.

"I don't need to see anyone," Myrtle whined. "I just want to be left alone."

Hermione stuck her head through the stall door, a complete breach of etiquette among ghosts. "Myrtle Buckram! You come with me right now, or I'll make your afterlife so bloody miserable you'll think Peeves is better company!"

Seated on the back of the toilet, Myrtle wilted under Hermione's scolding.

"Why?" she pouted. "I'm just fine right here. None of the other ghosts want to be my friends, and you only boss me around."

"Please trust me, Myrtle, just this once," Hermione coaxed. "I promise you you'll like this."

"Why should you care?"

"Didn't I always come to talk to you, even when I was alive? Isn't that worth anything?"

Myrtle twisted her shoe in one of the puddles on the toilet seat. "Oh, very well."

With Myrtle trailing behind, Hermione swooped back through the walls and down towards the central portion of the castle. They found Professor Snape listening to a non-stop monologue of what exactly was wrong with the state of child education in wizarding England, and looked to be only a few moments away from hexing Olive Hornby-Fitz Herbert with a lip-locking curse that would take days to counteract.

"Thank you, Professor," she told him fervently. He nodded in acknowledgement. "I had to fetch something from the girl's bathroom."

The faintly puzzled expression on Severus' face changed to comprehension, before his eyelids drooped down over a gleam of anticipation. With a subtle side-step, he removed himself from the immediate vicinity of the confrontation about to take place.

"Why in the name of all that's magic do you want to show me something from a bathroom?" Madame Hornby–Fitz Herbert asked, sniffing in disdain. "It sounds more like some juvenile prank, and I don't intend to stand for any nonsense!"

"No, actually, I wanted to show you to someone. Oh, Myrtle!" she called over her shoulder to the younger ghost, who had fallen behind when she'd perceived the mortals in the hallway. "Come here!"

"What makes them so important I had to leave my toilet?" she asked suspiciously.

"I wanted you to see something, Myrtle. This," and she indicated the squat woman behind her, "is someone you used to know."

"Myrtle?" demanded the witch in a peevish voice. "No. Please. Don't tell me it's her – I thought the Ministry banished her."

Myrtle peered at the visitor, drifting down. "Olive? Olive Hornby? Is it really?" She circled around the woman, looking at her.

"Myrtle Buckram! You certainly haven't changed a bit," Olive told her, the contempt in her voice apparent. "Still blubbering in your toilet, are you?"

"You have," Hermione injected quickly, before Myrtle could begin crying. "She's what, Myrtle, seventy years old, now? Hasn't aged all that well, has she?"

Olive gaped at Hermione. "That's a very personal comment, and I don't appreciate it," she said with a huff. "I demand you apologize at once!"

"And I'm sure Myrtle didn't appreciate you making comments about her glasses," Hermione retorted. "Did you ever apologize to her?"

"That was fifty years ago!" she protested. "I was a child!"

"No excuse," Hermione replied. "You may not have killed Myrtle, but you were responsible for making her miserable back then, and she's been miserable ever since."

"It's not my fault," she objected, looking at Myrtle with distaste. "If she hadn't been such a nasty little annoyance, always lurking around me and my friends..."

"She got fat," Myrtle commented suddenly, turning to Hermione in astonishment. Neither one paid any attention to Olive's latest gasp of outrage.

"Yes, she did," Hermione agreed.

"She's not very pretty any more, either," observed Myrtle.

"Really, Myrtle, I don't know how she ever managed to intimidate you," Hermione commented with a sniff. "It's not as though she's all that impressive a person."

Olive's pudgy cheeks began to redden, her superior sneer losing its power as her lower lip began to quiver. She appeared frozen in place, her outrage no match for the brutal, impartial truth expressed by individuals she could not intimidate.

"And she's got all those lines on her face," Myrtle continued, circling around the woman in question once more before settling beside Hermione. "She looks like a fat, nasty little lap dog."

A moaning cry escaped Olive, and she began to cry. Pressing one hand to her mouth, she fled the hall, her sniffles escalating into sobs as the door slammed shut behind her.

Hermione and Myrtle looked at each other.

"That wasn't very nice of us," Myrtle said, trying vainly to hide a sly smile behind her hand.

"No, not really," Hermione replied, a matching smile growing on her own lips. The two ghosts looked at each other, then burst into laughter. They swooped off down the hall, arm in arm, and their laughter ringing off the stone walls.

In their wake, Severus Snape strolled thoughtfully down the hall, his hands clasped behind his back and just a hint of a smirk tugging the corner of his mouth.


	6. Chapter 6

Streaking her way along the third floor one night, Hermione was just congratulating herself on making it down to the dungeons unnoticed when Sir Nicholas' head popped out of the wall in the corridor before her.

"There you are, Miss Hermione," he announced in his booming voice, causing Hermione to close her eyes briefly and stifle a comment her mother would never have approved of. Tucking a folded piece of parchment up the sleeve of her robe, she turned and greeted the older ghost.

"Good evening, Sir Nicholas," she said politely, though her words were lost as the cavalier tucked her arm through his and began to tell her, with a great deal of enthusiasm, what a wonderful time they were going to have at the Headless Polo match that night. The visiting team was from Mongolia, apparently, and were particularly known for making brilliant maneuvers with their severed heads. Nick went on to describe some of the intricacies of swapping heads while in mid-play, leaving Hermione thankful she no longer had a stomach to become upset.

Casting about desperately for a change of subject, she saw the telltale flicker of Myrtle disappearing down the side corridor and called out to her. "Myrtle! Come here, Nick was just telling me the most fascinating tale!" she lied brightly.

One of the biggest surprises this school year had been the growing popularity of Myrtle's bathroom. The confrontation with her childhood bete noir had had a startling effect on Myrtle's confidence, and like Dumbledore's phoenix she was slowly becoming the Agony Aunt of Hogwarts. Distraught young girls found Myrtle always happy to listen to their problems – the more miserable the better – and they poured their hearts out to her in droves. What little advice Myrtle gave them was often frivolous, but her sympathy and commiseration was sincere and they usually left feeling much better.

The Myrtle who drifted towards Nick and Hermione down the hall, therefore, was a slightly different ghost than the miserable non-entity of the last half century. She blushed becomingly as Nick greeted her, and her breathless response was shy but accompanied by a giggle that made Hermione wince ever so slightly.

"Nick was just telling me about the Mongolian Maulers," she told Myrtle with desperate enthusiasm. "Weren't you, Nick? Do tell Myrtle what you just said to me."

"Of course," Nick replied, his chest puffing ever so slightly as Myrtle peered up at him through her thick black glasses. Hermione gave every appearance of listening just as raptly to his story, all the while gently edging back from the other two. To her delight, neither Myrtle nor Nick seemed to notice Hermione's silence as Nick laid out, in detail, the nuances of the game. In fact, Hermione had the feeling she could have stood on her head for all the attention they paid her.

"Oh, that sounds simply brilliant," Myrtle gushed, before ducking her head coyly. "I've never understood the game so well before, Sir Nicholas. I do wish I'd had someone as knowledgeable as you to teach me!" She went off in a peal of her high-pitched giggles, but rather than finding them irritating, Nick seemed quite chuffed by the attention.

"I've just had a brilliant idea," Hermione interjected, sensing a change in the wind. "Nick, why don't you take Myrtle to the game tonight instead of me?" While Myrtle blushed silver again, Nick managed a few half-hearted protests about a gentleman's word, which Hermione quashed by claiming she needed to discuss an article in the new Potions Quarterly with Professor Snape. Eventually, Nick was convinced. He tipped his head to Hermione in parting, hoping she was not too crushed at missing out on such an exciting game, while Myrtle squealed with excitement and turned nearly pure silver as she took Nick's arm.

Hermione was fairly sure she could bear the disappointment. In fact, she could not quite stifle her sigh of relief as the ghostly pair faded into the distance, discussing Hermione's odd habit of interacting quite so much with the 'live ones' of Hogwarts. She wasn't sure if interacting with the live inhabitants of the castle was as strange as watching a group of dead men squabble over a severed head, but if so, she was willing to live with it. Or not live with it. Whatever.

Shrugging off that conundrum, she drifted down through the castle towards the dungeon. While she really did have an issue to discuss with the Potions Master, she was in no hurry to find him before she had completed her current errand. Past experience had taught her that holding a conversation with Snape was a good deal like trying to pet a half-tamed Kneazle. You never knew when he was going to snarl at you.

Strangely, her relationships with Harry and Ron were likewise developing similar, unexpected twists to them. The letter she had written earlier this evening, carefully held in the sleeve of her robe, was in reply to the correspondence Harry had sent earlier in the week. He was deep in the training program to become an Auror for the Ministry and seldom had the time to write to her.

The distance between them, not to mention the fact that she was no longer living, had brought a certain sense of reserve into their correspondence. Harry remained as reticent as ever about revealing the hardships in his life, she knew him well enough to glean those small clues and get some idea of how hard he was working. She had no idea about his personal life, if he even had one, as he refused to put anything on parchment that might be used against himself or the Order. Even the questions he sent asking her for details on obscure potions and a fresh view on the charms and incantations, while light-hearted, were meticulous and exact while remaining entirely vague on the circumstances of their use.

Ron, on the other had, was drifting away, and Hermione treasured each note he sent, since she was unsure how many more she would receive. No longer were his letters frank and punctuated with his crossed-out profanities; instead they were friendly and vague, rather like a dutiful periodic letter to a spinster aunt who used to send you clothes that were both out of style and too small to wear. Hermione's letters to him were likewise becoming bland, with little news to impart and nothing of any substance to discuss. She wondered sometimes if they would eventually stop corresponding altogether, and finally decided to stop agonizing over their eventual estrangement. It was only natural, she supposed, that they had lost their closeness once separated after school. It would likely have happened regardless of her death, but she mourned the loss of their friendship even as he had once mourned her.

It was with those somewhat unsettled feelings that Hermione arrived in the dungeons, only to find them completely empty. Snape's classroom was dim and quiet, as was his office. She went so far as to check his locked storeroom, but Snape was not in attendance.

In accordance with their barely-spoken agreement, Hermione left the letter on the corner of his desk. As expected, he had been predictably annoyed at her presumption for borrowing his raven for a post-owl that morning several months ago. Explaining the situation to him, that the owls all seemed to dislike her now, had brought her little sympathy, but eventually Hermione had managed to talk him into a compromise of sorts. She would leave her finished letters on the edge of his desk and if he had no other correspondence, he would allow Edgar to deliver it.

"Edgar?" she'd choked out in surprise. "You named your raven Edgar?"

"No, I didn't – he came with the name, and I never bothered to change it. And yes, Miss Granger, I am sufficiently aware of Muggle literature to understand the source."

Errand completed and mercifully free of social obligations, Hermione drifted around the potions classroom and Snape's office, looking at the specimens in the jars. When she'd been a student she had often wondered where he'd obtained most of them, but a chance comment of his to the Headmaster led her to believe they were a legacy from his predecessor. She couldn't imagine anyone deliberately acquiring dead things in jars, but it was at least as reasonable as collecting Chocolate frog's wizard cards.

The complete blackness of the dungeons was no impediment to Hermione's sight as she peered in the myriad containers. Some were obvious examples of pickled doxies or billywigs, long past their shelf life. Other specimens were a complete mystery, but amusing enough to speculate what they might have been before meeting their ignominious final resting place.

In the midst of her perusal, Hermione noticed a glimmer of light along the edge of the blank wall to one side of Snape's office. Human eyes might not have seen it, but a ghost was not limited to the normal spectrum and Hermione's eyes, or whatever her senses presented as visual, saw the crack that was not the result of the castle's age.

Barely remembering to turn invisible, Hermione peeked through the wall and discovered a short passage behind the false door. It quickly joined another narrow passage, one which lead off in two different directions. With a brief thought on how much Ron and Harry would have enjoyed finding another secret passage in the castle, Hermione followed the worn trail until it led to a narrow gap in the massive stone. The opening was covered from the outside by a heavy tapestry, and the sound of student voices on the other side was confirmed by a quick peek through the fabric; she'd found the Slytherin common room. This late at night the room was mostly deserted save for three older students discussing their holiday plans in sleepy, nearly ready for bed voices.

Backtracking, Hermione followed the passage past the junction to the Snape's office and very shortly found another opening, this time into a larger room. This was almost immediately recognizable as a private workroom, not only for the professional quality cauldrons neatly arranged on racks against one wall, but also by the table littered with books, scrolls, quills, and other flotsam the compulsively private professor would never have left out for a student to find.

Weighing respect for privacy against her own curiosity, and justifying herself with the thought of hours spent keeping her dungeon haunt clean by scrubbing cauldrons and removing the evidence of botched potions from the ceiling beams, Hermione swooped closer to the table. In the center of the mess lay a heavy wooden bookstand, over which was draped a soft towel. Cushioned on that towel was not one but two sheets of glass, sandwiching a tattered piece of parchment between them. Hermione recognized the text after a moment of thought; it was the scroll Snape had taken from an ancient, tarnished box one night as she observed him invisibly from above.

Beside the stand lay a sheaf of notes in Snape's familiar scrawl, the ink changing shades several times as he'd annotated his own translation. Without realizing it, Hermione settled into the chair and began reading the notes, fascinated by the unfolding mystery before her.

The original text was coded, but it was a Latin code Hermione knew she had no chance of solving despite her more than passable language skills. Fortunately, Snape's papers included both the decoded Latin and the English translation. Hours passed, unnoticed, while she pored over the work, grinning occasionally at the changes in handwriting that betrayed her professor's irritation and impatience with the disorganized writing.

When she had at last finished reading, Hermione was both baffled and intrigued. The author, who never once identified himself, had spent a great deal of time and ink encoding what was quite possibly the most boring life's story she'd ever had the misfortune to endure. Interspaced with the drivel, however, were occasional fantastic references to potions he had either seen or created. Most of these were patently absurd, including the one that, according to the author, redirected all sexual energy of a cleric who drank it and instead channeled that energy into a fervor for doing good deeds and leading a sober, chaste life of prayer. Since no mention was made of the ingredients, Hermione could only assume it was wishful thinking.

One potion mentioned, however, did include ingredients. Tantalizingly few and far between, lacking all mention of quantity or preparation, the promise of something Snape had translated as Tears of Phoenix potion was laced between comments on foot blisters and the proper way to cook a stringy chicken.

Reading through the margins once more, Hermione saw that Snape had of course noticed this promise of a miracle potion, and had already done a considerable amount of work on the subject. The edges of the parchment sheets were filled with notes on what was or was not a likely ingredient. Even the passage on the chicken had a question mark in the margin, and Hermione could just imagine Snape's disdainful eyebrow raising at that one.

Thinking of Snape at that moment made Hermione wonder once more where the man had gotten to, and at the same moment realize just how many hours had passed. In a panic at the thought of his displeasure over her inquisitiveness she carefully put the papers back in approximately the right place and rose up, ready to flee if he should suddenly storm in and began to rant at her.

He did not, however, and Hermione's apprehension over getting caught was quickly replaced by puzzlement. She had not seen the professor patrolling the halls earlier in the evening, and she knew from sharing his dungeon with him these many months that he did not simply disappear.

Unless he'd been summoned to Lord Voldemort.

Despite her lack of corporeal body, the thought of Snape being summoned was enough to make a shiver of unease go up her spine. Though he could be thoroughly unpleasant, Snape was still a member of the Order of the Phoenix and, ultimately, an ally in the war against Voldemort. His efforts as a spy were highly valuable, but highly dangerous, and she knew each time he answered Voldemort's call to his Death Eaters it might very well mean his death if his double-dealings were discovered.

Anxiety mounting, Hermione left the secret workroom and, on a hunch, plunged through the wall opposite the entrance. As she expected, the space on the other side of the thick wall was someone's quarters. The heavy, masculine furniture and sparse decorations weren't conclusive, but the long black scholar's robe flung over a chair was proof enough that these were Snape's rooms.

Otherwise immaculate, the spartan rooms included a sitting area, a small kitchen barely adequate to boil either eggs or a tea kettle, and a bedroom. A doorway opposite was presumably the bath. A few scattered personal effects betrayed the fact that anyone lived here on a permanent basis, but those knick-knacks on the wall or shelves revealed almost nothing about their owner.

The only thing out of place in the entire suite was a small cabinet door left ajar below a bookshelf in the bedroom. When she peeked inside, Hermione found a plain wooden box lying open, its lid pushed back as though the contents had been removed in a hurry. The inside of the box had been covered in velvet once, but the nap was crushed and worn, little more than a furze of green over the sad base fabric and the lumpy oval shape on the bottom. She puzzled over it for a moment until the lumps resolved themselves into a genderless face, and she realized the convex surface would be exactly the thing one would place a silver mask over for safekeeping.

Deciding she'd meddled enough for one night and thankful that she had not made herself corporeal enough to physically disturb anything in the room, Hermione rose like smoke up through the ceiling of the dungeons until she emerged in the Great Hall. The large clock in the hall was striking the hour as she came through the flagstone floor, telling her that it was nearly dawn.

One thing about being a ghost is it gave one a great deal of time for thought and reflection, and Hermione had had plenty of time to consider her fellow denizen of the dungeon. While Severus Snape was undeniably unpleasant, she could not dismiss the dangers he endured, and even grudgingly admire his ability to carry on both his teaching duties while playing a deadly game of cat and mouse.

Torn between worry for the man and anxiety for what he would say should he catch her worrying, she chose a more discretionary course and sailed nonchalantly through the corridors in the general direction of the Headmaster's office. If anything were amiss, the activity around Dumbledore's office would be a dead giveaway.

She felt perfectly justified in her concern when the gargoyle guarding the stairs to the Headmaster's domain began to rumble and rotate, indicating someone was either going up or coming down. When the last step appeared, however, Hermione felt almost let down and just a bit foolish as Snape himself stepped off the stairs. He looked tired but perfectly intact, though somewhat worse for wear, his hair in lank strings over his sallow cheeks and his robes falling in heavy creases.

He gave her a sharp look, and Hermione wondered if she had betrayed herself in any way. "Good morning, Professor," she managed.

A curt nod was the only response she received from Snape before he turned away and walked down the hall. Noting that he was headed the opposite direction of his dungeons, and since she was technically headed that way as well, Hermione floated along behind him. He had likely been up all night, she reminded herself, noticing the lack of his normal whipcord energy, and then promptly chided herself for fretting about someone perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Rather than wait for Snape to accuse her of following him, Hermione ducked around loose-jointed stride that appeared to have no destination and sped down the corridor ahead.

Leaving the dark man behind, Hermione followed the darkened length of the corridor, punctuated only by the occasional torch, until the stone walls gave way to arched windows along one side. Slowly she drifted to halt beside one of the large openings, mentally shaking her head. Despite the fact they shared the dungeons, she was a fooling herself to think that Professor Snape would ever accept, let alone welcome, her concern over his well-being. It was absolutely futile to fret over him, she thought ruefully as she looked out over the grounds.

Deep in her phantom bones, Hermione could feel the sun about to rise and turned her attention to view beyond the diamond panes of glass before her.

Below, the lake lay still and dark against the mass of trees that marked the beginning of the Forbidden Forest. With the approach of the Winter Solstice the sun had been rising later and later each day, making the nights last longer and giving the ghosts more time to roam the halls and indulge in their activities. Some of the spirits within the castle avoided the sunlight completely, but Hermione did not let the unsettling exposure keep her from enjoying the play of colors as night gave way to day. She had enjoyed watching sunsets when she living, and since her death had mentally labeled her new penchant for sunrises as the opposite.

To her surprise, the sound of footsteps came from the corridor she'd left behind, and after a moment a dark head came into sight. Professor Snape emerged from the hall and came towards her. He seemed just as surprised to see her floating in front of the window and stopped short.

"Did you want something, Miss Granger?" he asked, his voice gone gravelly with fatigue and lacking any real acid.

"No, Professor," she replied, flustered. "Actually, this is one of my favorite places to watch the sun rise."

Over her shoulder, Hermione could see the first rays of light growing stronger at the eastern horizon. Wordlessly, Snape walked towards the windowsill and leaned heavily on the stone mullion, and they both watched as the sun begin to creep over the water and the distant forest.

Unsure how to bring the subject up, Hermione scrutinized the deep lines on his face from the corner of her eye. Before she could stop it, she found herself asking "Have you had any sleep at all tonight, Professor?"

Too tired to make a sharp retort, Snape settled for shaking his head wearily.

"Not to sound like a know-it-all, professor, but anyone who keeps the hours you do and then stays up to watch the sunrise is not getting enough sleep."

"That doesn't take a genius to figure out, Miss Granger, and no, I have not yet been to bed this night," he replied, his voice lacking his normal acerbic quality. "And you sound more like a nanny," he added when she made a tsking noise of reproof.

Hermione smiled gently, both from the daytime lassitude that grew with the rising sun and from relief at Snape's approachable manner. "Well, then, young man. You need to get some sleep."

"I cannot sleep," he muttered. "I simply needed to see the sunrise this morning."

"No offence, Professor Snape, but I've never really thought of you as a sunrise type of person."

A long moment passed before he answered her. "It is the only constant in my life. The one thing I can count on, absolutely."

Hermione chuckled. "And here I was sure you were a pessimist." He shot her a look that said, plainly, 'don't be stupid,' and she hastened to clarify her statement. "I've heard it said that the ultimate pessimist does not believe the sun will come up every morning, just because it has, every day, for the last ten million years or so."

To her surprise, his mouth twisted in a grimace of appreciation for her comment. "Not even I would be so cynical as that."

An almost comfortable silence fell between them as the sun continued to peek over the hills, burning first pink and then gold as it slowly revealed itself. Hermione glanced over at the man standing so still beside her, his face raised to the painfully bright rays of the new-risen sun. His sharp profile was harsh in the unrelenting light, softened only by the dark sweep of his eyelashes and the careworn lines in his face.

Even as she watched, Snape took a deep breath and, feeling her gaze, turned to raise a single eyebrow at her.

"So Professor Snape is not a creature of darkness after all," she teased. "Who would have known?"

Like a cloak thrown over him, his normal half-scowl returned, and any trace of the quiet man who had been there before vanished without a trace. "I am always in darkness," he told her wearily, and without another word left her behind, his wrinkled robes flaring behind him.

&&&&&

As Hermione gently set her latest set of borrowed books on the circulation desk, yet another disapproving sniff came from Madame Pince's direction. The prim librarian had finally stopped protesting the ghost's use of the library, but still voiced her opinion of the situation with frequent tsks, sighs, and other wordless complaints as Hermione checked out books. In return, Hermione did her best to serenely ignore the woman. If she was occasionally guilty of being a bit smug as she emerged from the stacks, it might reasonably be attributed to her triumph over finding a certain rare book and not because she was secretly enjoying at the librarian's seething frustration.

"Pardon me, Miss Granger," came a timid voice from behind her. Turning obediently out of the way, Hermione found a second-year Gryffindor. The girl also had a stack of books in her arms, one that looked much too heavy for her. Hermione smiled and moved out of the way, and was pleasantly surprised to see the child shyly smile back.

The newer students were slowly warming to Hermione's frequent presence in the library, especially after one memorable evening when she had helped two students with their Potions homework. The word had spread that the ghostly Miss Granger knew quite a bit about charms as well, and almost before she knew it Hermione had become the best kept secret among the younger students who needed help keeping up with their assignments.

Taking a shortcut through the wall, Hermione drifted out of the confines of the wing containing the library, heading towards the Great Hall and the dungeons below. She had nearly crossed the open courtyard when she came to a gentle halt. All around her, the ground was white, and she blinked in surprise as she looked up to see additional snow falling in waves. Surely the students had just returned to the school last week?

Turning around, Hermione took in the somber, quiet beauty of the snow drifting against the cold stone walls. No prints were left behind as she walked further out, but her upturned face could just barely feel the whisper-soft caress of the falling snow. The fat flakes fell through her rather than settling on her curls as they used to do, and in one blinding moment, Hermione remembered being with Harry and Ron, standing in the falling snow as they tossed snowballs around, laughing with each other and hearing the stone walls echo their laughter back to them. The still silence was all the more profound as she felt the snow falling down, and she was not sure which was more painful, remembering her friends or having forgotten their time together.

By the time Hermione shook off her reverie and returned to the interior of the school, the lights had died and all the students had gone to their dormitories. The same quiet pervaded the dungeons as the snowy outdoors, somehow peaceful and melancholy rather than eerie. It reminded her of the quiet moment she'd spent with the Potions Master before a sunrise sometime earlier in the year, and she once again found herself concerned over the man.

No matter how often she tried to wrench her mind off him, concern for Severus Snape seemed to creep into her thoughts. Perhaps it was because she spent so many hours with him, not necessarily in conversation but at least present in the same dungeon. She'd seen his hands shaking as he graded papers, the miasma of fatigue that seemed to be as much a part of him as his black robes.

Hermione had even gone so far as to broach the subject with the Headmaster one evening, during one of Snape's all too frequent absences, but Albus Dumbledore had given her only blithe reassurances. "Severus is fine, Hermione," he told her. "Not having your friend Harry to teach, or any of the army of Weasleys, has done him wonders, as has your continued help. He should have taken an assistant long ago!"

The old wizard had toddled off, chuckling at his own joke, leaving Hermione to make her own conclusions. Either Dumbledore was completely unobservant, or he knew Snape's dislike for any intrusion on his private life and would welcome it as much as he would a surprise birthday party. Which left Hermione exactly where she was, floating invisibly above the dungeon classroom and wondering if brooding were a contagious disease.

She was still reflecting when the door of the classroom crashed open. Careening in through the doorway, Snape let loose a string of obscenity and slammed the door behind him. Icy clumps clung to his hair and cloak and he looked like a man who had trudged through snowy woods for far too long.

"Bloody fuckwits, standing around in the weather for hours," he snarled to no one in particular as he made his way unsteadily towards the demonstration worktable at the front of the classroom. "You'd think a man who was half reptile would be more interested in keeping his backside warm. No, of course not, he wants to lecture us and hear everyone boasting about their contributions to the cause. We would have all frozen to death if it weren't for the hot air."

The wet cloak dropped into a sodden pile on the floor, followed soon by the frock coat, although the latter had had several buttons torn from it where his fingers were too clumsy to fiddle the holes. One long arm snagged a nearby cauldron from his cabinet as he went around the back of the table, and it landed with a clank on the support ring. Brushing wet hair aside, Snape bent over far enough to aim his wand at the burner, and after several irritated pokes it lit with a whoosh.

His wand was unceremoniously dropped to one side of the cauldron stand as he held his hands out to be warmed by the meager flame, and he did not even flinch as Hermione materialized at his elbow.

"Are you all right?" she asked, concerned. The glare she received in return rivaled a basilisk.

"Do I look all right?"

"No. You look wet, cold," she paused and gave him another look, "not to mention half-drunk."

"Thank you for reminding me," he snarled, but his voice lacked conviction, perhaps because he was chilled past the point of even letting his teeth chatter.

"Why don't you get into a hot bath?" Hermione scolded. "You'll never get warm in here."

"Thank you, Nanny Granger," he replied, woodenly pulling out a flask of distilled water out of the cabinet and pouring it into the cauldron. "Why don't you make yourself useful and get me the armadillo bile?"

Mystified but obedient, Hermione fetched the fat bottle from the supply room and plunked it down on the workbench.

"Since when do you put armadillo bile in a sobering potion?" she asked. "Shouldn't you use something a little easier on the stomach?"

"It neutralizes toxins," he answered shortly, pouring a generous amount into the water, which was beginning to steam. Several other things went in as well, including some yellow dock and a handful of St. Mary's thistle. The ingredients were not so unusual, but the preparation was sloppier than anything Hermione had seen outside of Snape's First Year classes.

Any thought of questioning him on this went out of her head, though, when Snape grabbed his side as if in terrible pain. There was no sign of blood on his white shirt, however, and he straightened a moment later and continued his haphazard work as though nothing had happened.

Less than a minute later, however, he let out a groan and pressed his hand into his side once more. He stumbled sideways, fetching up hard against the table, and his free hand grabbed the edge in a white-knuckled grip to keep himself from falling to the floor.

A retching sound forced its way past Snape's clenched teeth, and Hermione was just able to snatch a discarded cauldron from beneath one of the student tables and get it into place before his knees gave way and he was violently ill.

Unsure of what else to do, Hermione held the cauldron while Snape emptied his stomach, vomiting again and again in painful spasms. She presumed he was finished when he pushed it away and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His hands were shaking.

"It's not necessary for you to be here," he said curtly, his dignity in tatters.

Well," she reflected, "I am here, and it's likely a good thing, too."

"You always did have a good sense of timing with a cauldron," he admitted. "Not that Miss Bettencourt will appreciate what you've done with hers."

"What's in there now is better than anything Miss Bettencourt had ever put in," Hermione retorted, cautiously appraising his mood. "This seems a lot worse than just too much to drink. Were you cursed?"

"Only by my so-called friends and their vicious sense of humor."

"Someone poisoned you?" she asked, appalled.

Snape growled impatiently and unsteadily regained his feet, leaning heavily on the workbench. A rack of essential oils atop it fell over with a crash, and several vials began rolling towards the edge.

With a deft hand for someone incorporeal, Hermione rescued the narrow bottles and returned them to the center of the table. Snape was fumbling the lid off one, his hands shaking so badly she was sure he'd spill it all before he got it into the cauldron. Unable to endure it any longer, she lifted the vial from his clumsy fingers.

"Sit down, you stupid, idiotic man, and let me help you. You're going to slop it all over the table. How much?"

With a visible effort, Severus Snape let his outrage die like a guttering flame and slumped onto the nearby stool. It was a moment before he took a deep breath, and told her the required number of drops. For the next few minutes he did nothing but direct Hermione's actions in a resigned voice, as though waiting for her to take advantage of his weakened state.

It was not until the last ingredient was added and Hermione had stirred the proper number of times that she spoke again.

"Did you eat anything before you started drinking?"

Despite himself, Severus found the corner of his mouth twitching. "Yes, Nanny Granger. I did eat."

"Obviously not enough to counter all the brandy you drank," she retorted. Glancing over when he did not answer, she was startled to see a fine dew of sweat beading on his forehead. His eyes were closed, lines of pain etched everywhere on his face as another spasm racked his body.

"Professor?" she called, and when he did not stir she became even more concerned. "Professor Snape!"

To her relief his eyes opened slowly, the black pupils eventually focussing on her translucent face.

"Shouldn't you go see Madame Pomfrey?" she asked nervously.

"No," Snape answered, his voice barely audible. "There's nothing she can do for this, other than what I'm doing now."

"Are you sure?"

"Do stop blathering, Miss Granger. I know what's wrong and so does Poppy." His gaze slid over to the cauldron, which was emitting puffs of violet smoke and had turned a strange shade of orange. With more strength than Hermione would have thought possible, Snape struggled to his feet and over to the table.

"It looks fine. Give it here."

It's awfully hot," she warned, but ladled a portion into a clean beaker. Snape downed more than half of it before pausing and gagging again, but keeping the potion down through sheer stubborn determination.

Finally, Hermione abandoned tact for bluntness. "What's wrong with you?"

"That's rather an open ended question, Miss Granger, not to mention highly impertinent."

"Take it up with the Baron. Why are you drinking a concoction of systemic stimulants?" She took in his hand, still pressed to his side. Her gaze fell on the litter of ingredients spread across the table. "Wait a moment… turmeric root, dandelion, skullcap, gallium aperine…" She ticked the ingredients off on her fingers, adding the evidence up in her mind. "Kidney failure?"

"Liver, actually," he said in an offhand manner, even as he upended the vial and forced down the last of the potion in the flask. "Wizards call it Braxdice Syndrome. I believe Muggles call it hepatitis."

"There's more than one kind of hepatitis."

"Just as there's more than one variety of Braxdice. Mine happens to be the incurable variety. While its symptoms are all endearing, it has the added benefit of amusing Lucius Malfoy to no end, especially when he insists I drink the turpentine he passes off as firewhiskey. It would not surprise me if he obtained this particularly vile distillation just for his fellow Death Eaters."

Armed with this new information, Hermione inspected Severus Snape once more and could not help but notice how sallow his complexion was, his skin pulled tightly over the bones of his face. The yellow tinge was not from his lack of exposure to the sun, but from a malfunctioning liver. That would account for his general air of bad health, and a steady diet of stimulants would explain his relentless energy and legendary insomnia.

It was no stretch to imagine Lucius Malfoy's sadistic pleasure in pressing a poor quality drink on Snape – he was exactly the sort to classify poisoning a Potions Master as a practical joke.

"Will that potion take away the pain?" she asked.

"No," he answered simply. "But it will keep my liver from turning itself inside out, and will neutralize the alcohol still in my system. I'll take the rest of that," and he indicated the cauldron with a nod of his head, "in regular doses." His voice cut off as another wave of agony paralyzed him.

"Go to bed," Hermione ordered when it had passed. "I'll put this in something and bring it to your rooms. Unless you need help?"

His response was unintelligible, but he made it upright and across the floor on unsteady feet. Once the secret passageway had closed behind him, Hermione fetched several large vials and a strainer. Snape had drunk the first dose bits and all, but she rather imagined it wasn't necessary to leave them in.

By the time she finished and carried the six-pack of vials through the secret passageways to Snape's suite (nervously reminding herself to open the doors rather than sail through them, which would have disastrous results for the glass vials in her hand), the man himself had crawled under the covers of his bed and fallen asleep. Setting the rack of potion doses on his bedside table and looked around, Hermione felt the urge to do more than simply play delivery ghost. A glance at the empty fire grate prompted her to summon a house elf, who was happy to light a strong fire and, after promising to do so discretely, apply a drying charm to the still-damp hair that clung to Severus Snape's drawn face.

The elf was also delighted to tidy up the discarded clothing that had been exchanged for the thick nightshirt Snape wore, buttoned up tightly of course. Hermione hoped he'd had the sense to put on a thick pair of socks but opted not to have the elf do that as well.

Asking the elf to follow her, Hermione faded through the walls once more to the potions classroom, the elf bouncing along and effortlessly Apparating through the doors. Here, she directed her helper to take Snape's cloak and other discarded clothing away while she cleared the worktable of all accoutrements, knowing full well the elves were forbidden to clean anything in the Potion Master's domain.

When all the ingredients were back on their shelves, the cauldron in the sink, and all the rubbish disposed of, Hermione was left looking at Snape's wand, lying forgotten on the table. It was beyond imagining that he had forgotten his wand, and Mad Eye Moody would have laughed himself sick at a man nearly as paranoid as himself losing his wand, but then again Moody wasn't known for being sympathetic.

Deciding she ought not leave the thing lying about and intending to put it next to his potions on his bedside table, Hermione picked up the wand only to drop it with a gasp as an excruciating hot pain went through her fingertips. Momentarily stymied, she stuck her burnt fingers in her mouth and observed the wand with some suspicion even as her brain began ticking along with questions and observations and possibilities all milling through her thoughts.

She settled for finding a pair of wooden tongs and lifting the wand up carefully, like a freshly molded spike of steel, through the classroom and into Snape's office. The top drawer was full of quills and sweets and other nonsense confiscated from students over the past few months, and was as likely a hiding place as any other to stash the wand until its owner recovered enough to retrieve it.


	7. Chapter 7

The sound of two low voices came as a surprise to Hermione as she glided back through the walls of Professor Snape's suite. She'd left the room darkened, and now a faint candlelight glowed in the wall sconce near the doorway between bedroom and bath. Swiftly turning invisible, she cautiously advanced towards the voices, only to catch Professor Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey quietly discussing the unconscious man on the bed.

Despite her precaution, Dumbledore's blue eyes met hers over the mediwitch's shoulder and creased in a pleased smile. "Ah, Miss Granger. We were just wondering if Severus had someone to lend a hand and watch over him this evening."

Out of courtesy Hermione materialized, startling Poppy Pomfrey into clutching the neck of her dressing gown. "I suppose I'm watching over him," Hermione replied, somewhat at a loss. "He's only been back for a short while, long enough to make those," and she pointed towards the potion doses on his night table, "and crawl into bed."

The school nurse plucked one of the vials from the rack and held it up to the candle flame. "Hmm. I suppose he'd been drinking?" she asked sternly, and made an irritated clucking when Hermione nodded.

"Some window dressing is necessary, Poppy," the Headmaster reminded her. "Severus knows his limits."

Pomfrey ignored the man and pinned Hermione with a sharp look. "Was he able to keep it down?"

"The potion, yes. The whiskey, no."

"Hmph. Just as well," she commented. "He's done better than usual, this time. He seldom ever remembers to strain this glop."

Hermione said nothing, but Dumbledore gave her a long look over the top of his half-moon glasses. He also chose not to say anything, however, and instead turned to his companion. "Well, Poppy, it's getting late, and as you can see Severus is doing as well as can be expected. Now, you may not be as old as I, but we both need our sleep. Miss Granger, may I impose on you to keep an eye on Severus for us?"

"I have no objections," Hermione told him uncertainly, "but what should I watch for?"

"Sudden fever, violent nightmares, vomiting," Poppy answered promptly, as though this were a common occurrence. "It's two in the morning, now. If he happens to wake at any time before dawn, remind him to take a dose of the Braxdice potion. In any case, he's to take another as soon as he wakes. I'll be down to check on him just before breakfast."

Several hours later, Severus Snape did indeed begin stirring. Hermione guiltily replaced the book she'd been reading on a nearby shelf and materialized by the drapery at the head of his bed.

With a groan Snape rolled to one side and coughed several times, squinting into the faint light of the candle still burning in the wall sconce. When his black eyes focused on Hermione's pale outline, his upper lip curled in distaste.

"Dumbledore's been here, hasn't he?" Severus muttered. "He always leaves a watchdog in his wake."

"Humans need sleep," Hermione reminded him. "I don't."

Not bothering to reply to that, Severus reached a shaking hand out towards the rack. The tremors made the glass vial ring violently against the wire rack and Hermione swooped in to rescue the dose before it slipped through his fingers. He growled at her, but had little choice in accepting her help – it wasn't as though he could physically push her away.

He managed to swallow the thick liquid, his expression eloquently telegraphing his opinion of the taste before collapsing back again, eyes closed, his heavy breathing an indication of how much that small effort had cost him.

Eyes still closed, Severus pushed the covers down, then pulled them back up, his movements barely coordinated as he shifted uncomfortably. A faint sheen of sweat had appeared on his face, leaving his complexion waxy and sallow.

Without thinking, an instinct older than civilization and beyond the confines of the living prompted Hermione to put her hand on Severus' forehead to gauge his temperature, but she was unable to distinguish whether or not he had a fever. The gooey, sticky heat of a living body clung to her hand, but he felt no different to her senses than any other live one.

Severus moaned faintly, and she snatched her hand away. "I'm so sorry, Professor. Did that hurt?"

"S'wonnerful," he sigh, barely audible.

Unsure of herself, Hermione tentatively put her hand back on his forehead. Another relieved sigh rewarded her, and she steeled her nerve to withstand the distasteful sensation. If the cool effect of her phantom hand was a balm for a sick man, she would endure it.

For a while.

Alternating first one hand, then the other, Hermione was pleased when Snape's agitation slowly calmed, and he seemed to fall into a deeper sleep. Even after she withdrew her chilly touch, he lay quiet and still for several hours.

The tall taper had burned down to a mere guttering stub when he began to stir once more, his head tossing from one side to another and a half-intelligible murmur coming from his thin lips. He did not respond when Hermione called his name, and no matter how hard she tried she could not interpret his words. She caught Dumbledore's name once, at least she thought it was 'Albus,' though for all she knew it could have just as easily been 'bulbous' or 'hippopotamus.'

Leaning closer, she tried to bring her ear down closer to hear his voice. She miscalculated, however and a sudden toss of his head put his jaw right where her cheek hovered over him. Not having a physical body, her form had no resistance and his forehead went right through her own.

As sudden as a flash of lightning might reveal a dark room, Hermione caught a glimpse of a foggy island and a tall, dark-clad man, the image as clear in her mind as if she'd just seen it. She sat up abruptly, hovering over the restless man's bed, and the image was gone. Hermione stared down at him, wide-eyed. The glimpse she'd had of the man – Snape? – carried with it a sense of confusion and loss and terrific loneliness that tore like jagged shards inside her.

Severus had gone silent when her cheek had faded through his, but after a long moment, he began tossing again. His murmuring began again, protesting, almost angry in tone.

Gathering her nerve, Hermione leaned in once more, closing her eyes and turning her face to the side so that her cheek was so near his that she could feel the living aura of his body rising like an open sauna around her. His physical self took a sudden deep breath at the coolness of her immaterial form even as Hermione set her teeth against the heat, but her focus was on the island and its lone inhabitant.

Heavy fog lay in a gray blanket around her when Hermione became aware again. The night air was cool and moist against her face, and beneath her feet the ground was spongy and damp. Gravity was a novel concept after having been accustomed to being a ghost; she bounced on the balls of her feet to test her weight in this reality. That sensation quickly lost its appeal when black, noisome water welled up over her slipper-clad toes and left her feet wet and cold.

Stepping gingerly out of the puddle she'd just made, Hermione looked around for any landmarks – trees, a road, or most especially a tall man whose dream she was currently invading. Vision, however, was extremely limited, and the few yards she could make out in any direction lacked any features except more of the boggy ground. Frowning, she tucked her hair behind her ears and listened intently.

A faint sound drew her in one direction, and within a few yards she noticed an outline in the gray nothing. Some ten steps later, a form coalesced out of the fog; a tall man wearing a white shirt and black trousers. His back was to her but his thin physique and black hair left no doubt whom she had found.

"Professor Snape?" she called tentatively, but the man did not turn. All his attention seemed focused on the banks of fog before him, and frustration was evident in the set of his shoulders. His boots had worn a short arc in the damp earth as he paced back and forth, and it wasn't until Hermione came up beside him that he even glanced at her.

"You're not real," he told her dismissively, turning back to his searching.

Hermione had no response to that; she was too busy trying to take in the difference between the professor she knew and the man before her. He seemed taller, his hair no longer greasy but soft raven-black wings framing his long face. And his face… it took Hermione several long moments to realize that she was looking at a much younger man – or was he? No, not necessarily younger.

Her own experience with shaping her own phantom reality suddenly clarified her understanding as to what Snape's internal self-image signified. This was Severus Snape as he remembered himself to be – before he became a Death Eater, before his life had spiraled out of control and forced him down a path of successively bad choices and worse consequences, which had aged him far more than the past two decades should have.

"Professor Snape," Hermione tried again. "Is something wrong?"

Again, he ignored her, peering into the fog-shrouded distance. His agitation was growing, a non-stop undertone of hopeless cursing issuing from between clenched teeth as he paced back and forth.

"Professor. Professor Snape. Severus!"

At his given name, he finally responded and turned towards her. "What do you want?" he snapped.

"Where are we?"

"I don't know where we are," he admitted. "But I'm supposed to be somewhere else."

"Where?"

"I don't… don't remember. I need to go somewhere. You don't remember, do you? Of course not, you were never any good at remembering things."

Hermione stifled a sharp retort, knowing it probably would not help. He most likely didn't even recognize her. "Maybe I can help you remember. Did it have anything to do with your meeting?"

"I don't think so. Prefect meetings are always such a waste of time, I doubt there was any need to attend in the first place."

"It wasn't a prefect meeting, Professor. Do you remember what happened tonight?"

He frowned, thinking. "There wasn't a staff meeting," he began doubtfully. One hand strayed to his left sleeve, where she knew he kept his wand, but nothing was there for his searching fingers to find.

"Were you wanting Professor Dumbledore? I thought I heard you call his name, earlier." Hermione did not elaborate on when or where he'd muttered that name.

"Albus? Why would I want to talk to him, unless it was something…" Severus trailed off, and unexpectedly made a choking sound. His face went pale, and a moment later he grabbed at his stomach as though mortally wounded.

"Professor!" Hermione called, but he sank to his knees, hunched over in pain. Out of reflex she grabbed his arm in an effort to keep him from falling over, and to her immense shock he was solid. Slumping heavily against her, the man heaved a shaky breath, his body shuddering in agony.

"Make it stop," he gasped. "Please, stop. No more, please – I'm begging you," he rasped, almost sobbing.

"Stop it," Hermione ordered him, doing her best to shake his narrow but still solid frame. "This isn't real, Professor. Severus," she corrected. "This is a dream, Severus. It's not real."

The man in her arms shuddered again, but some of the hard tension leaked out of his body. Hermione wrapped her arms around him and repeated her words again and again, until his shoulders stopped shaking.

"Mum?" he murmured questioningly.

Hermione glanced down at herself and realized she was wearing an old fashioned traditional witch's robe, but even as she watched it faded back to the robes she usually manifested. The man in her arms pulled away from her far enough to see her properly, suspicion on his face.

"You're not my mother," Snape told her flatly, before she could respond. "Mother's dead."

"No, I'm not," Hermione agreed evenly, carefully directing his attention to their conversation and not his previous agony. "You're only dreaming. See?" She put her hand on his arm where it wrapped around his middle. "There's nothing wrong, Severus. This is only a dream, and there's nothing wrong."

Snape hesitantly allowed Hermione to draw him upright once more until he stood, swaying slightly. She kept her hands on his arm and shoulder, hoping to keep his attention focused on herself and not the fathomless, vaguely menacing fog.

"This is a dream. There is only your will, and the world is what you make it, Severus. No pain, no unhappiness."

His hands loosened finally, and mirrored her own hold on his arms, lightly clasping her elbows. He looked down at her, at the circle they made with their interlocking grasp. She could feel the solid bone and muscle of his arms, feel the grip of his long fingers on her arms.

"I'm still lost," he told her. The uncertainty was still present in his deep, velvety voice, but the urgency and pain was missing.

"It doesn't matter," Hermione replied. "You're safe here. You can rest, now."

His black hair swung back and forth as he disagreed. "You can never rest, not really," he said hollowly. His long features were shrouded by his black hair as he looked down at her. "You must always keep watch. If you let your guard down even for a moment, they'll get you."

Hermione did not want to know who 'they' were; 'they' could be any number of horrors in Severus Snape's imagination and she didn't want to take the chance of stirring any sleeping monsters out of his psyche. She had not doubt that the man in front of her had more than enough real experience with very bad things.

"I'll watch over you while you sleep," she told him instead. "You can trust me. I won't let anything happen to you."

"You won't?" he asked, almost suspiciously. "Why not?"

"Because," she replied, casting about for something convincing. "That's why I'm here. To watch over you."

Surprisingly, he seemed to accept that. With a tired shrug, he sat down on a particularly thick roll of fog, which turned out to be an old, squashy chaise of unknown vintage. A decrepit rug had been thrown over it, any design lost in the stains and wear. It looked terrifically uncomfortable, but Snape lay down on it as though it were a featherbed and closed his eyes.

Hermione stood over him in the gray expanse, waiting for monsters, but within moments the gray faded away completely, and she was once again hovering over Snape's bed in his chilly dungeon rooms. The man himself was quiet, however, and in a deep sleep.

Feeling more than a little shaken and terribly unsure of herself, Hermione wrapped her arms around herself and retreated to the ceiling.

&&&&&

"Not that one, either. I've read it already."

Twenty-four hours of enforced bed rest had resulted in a much healthier Potions Master, but had not sweetened the man's demeanor. If anything, Poppy's orders had made him even worse than usual, and if it weren't for her promise to the mediwitch Snape would be left alone to fetch his own damned reading materials. Especially since it was well past curfew and Hermione would rather have been patrolling the halls during the night rather than playing nursemaid to a cranky middle-aged man.

Hermione controlled the impulse to throw it at him. "Yes, Professor, I'm sure you have. After all, it is your book. You've probably read all these books, but unfortunately I can't pull any new material out of my bum!"

"I had no idea ghosts were so temperamental," Snape observed mildly, but made no effort to take the offered text.

Comments about pots and kettles sprang to the tip of her tongue. "I can always fetch the Third Year essays still sitting on your desk," she reminded him tartly. As she expected, he showed no enthusiasm for the offer of homework to grade.

"Give me the book."

Handing it over, Hermione gathered the rest of the rejected reading material and settled on the far side of his room. One in particular had caught her attention, and she was quickly absorbed in the subject. She ignored the rasps of impatience and page flicking across the room, though it actually gave her a small thrill of pleasure to know her mere presence was so irritating. If she could actually be banned from his rooms, her spineless agreement to Dumbledore's request would be nullified and she could escape.

"If you really wanted to be helpful, Miss Granger, you'd bring my wand back here."

"I'm not touching that thing," she told him. "It burns. Madame Pomfrey said you can have it back when you're well enough to fetch it yourself. And it's no use asking the house elves," she added when he inhaled preparatory to shouting out to the elf services. "She's already given them orders, too."

His breath fizzled out into dire mutterings, but Hermione paid no attention to that or to his glare. While his temper was back to normal, Severus Snape was still wobbly as a newborn Thestral and would be going without his wand for the next day or so.

"Why don't you go and bother Hagrid?" Snape finally asked, when glaring at her failed to get a response.

"Because," she replied, still reading. "I told Madame Pomfrey and the Headmaster I'd stay here tonight to keep an eye on you, in case you need anything." Hermione shot a significant look at the books littering the floor. "Besides the fact he's probably out tromping in the Forbidden Forest, every time I do try talking to him, he starts to get all weepy and choked up and can't carry on a decent conversation."

Snape snorted, a harsh burst of humor that came out unexpectedly. "Hagrid was a Gryffindor, Miss Granger. Flexible thinking is not as much a hallmark of that house as is sheer bone-headedness."

Hermione glared at him over her book, only to see a smug expression on his face as he finally got a reaction out of her. Before she could comment, he went on.

"Speaking of bone-headed, are you still avoiding Sir Nicholas?"

"No, not any longer. He doesn't require as much discouragement as he did."

"As I just stated, Miss Granger. Gryffindors are bone-headed, not to mention clueless, and Nearly Headless Nick is the epitome of Gryffindor. I would be surprised to find avoidance was a viable option for discouragement."

"I'd already realized that, Professor, and tried a different option. Distraction."

"How so?" he asked, as if genuinely interested. Boredom would do that, she supposed, although she suspected the Slytherin in him was always interested in way to manipulate others.

"Myrtle," she replied succinctly.

"The one in the bathroom?"

"Mmm," Hermione agreed absently. "She's finally begun to realize that she doesn't actually have acne any longer, and her complexion has cleared up nicely. I can only hope for as much success on the rest of her appearance. Last week I caught her with her hair in a rather frightening beehive shaped arrangement and the most inappropriate clothing!"

"Really," Snape drawled.

Attempting to keep her smile under control, she answered. "It seems she found one of those horrid racy magazines left behind in the boys' dormitory. I made her change into something more appropriate."

"Not Slytherin dormitory, I hope," he said, horrified.

"Hufflepuff."

"Yes, it's always the quiet ones. The Slytherin boys consider themselves too sophisticated to read pornography, and the Ravenclaw boys seldom even realize girls are worth looking at until they're nearly finished with school."

Hermione waited for a comment on Gryffindor, but surprisingly it did not come. Instead, Severus settled back into his pillows and actually appeared to be attempting a civil conversation. Or a civil gossip session, which this was rapidly becoming.

"So, how goes your efforts at distraction?"

"Well, Nick thinks Myrtle was terribly brave for confronting Olive Hornby, which made Myrtle light up like a Catherine wheel."

He nodded once, as if agreeing.

"And when I made sure Myrtle joined us at the Baron's monthly meeting, Nick overheard Myrtle declaring that he was the most dashing, handsome fellow she'd ever seen. Which might have held more meaning if Myrtle had left her bathroom more often in the past fifty years."

"Isn't she a bit young for you to be foisting off on Nearly Headless Nick?" His voice seemed to be slurring a bit, and Hermione glanced over to see that his eyelids were starting to droop. Trust romantic machinations to bore a man into slumber.

"Well, she's sixteen. In Nick's day, five hundred years ago, that was plenty old enough. Or if you count it another way, she's seventy-odd, since she's been hanging about in that loo for, what, more than fifty years now? I'd say she was due for a good snog."

Severus gave a non-committal grunt. "And what does the Bloody Baron think of all your matchmaking efforts?"

"Oh, he's always good for a little romance, the old sot. He's worse than Professor Dumbledore sometimes."

"I don't think the Baron could match Dumbledore's flair for the dramatic," Severus commented.

Hermione chuckled. "You're talking about a ghost who delights in wearing a blood-stained robe day in and day out. Don't let those fool you, Professor, he only wears them because he likes the sensational effect. I heard it from Dead Deirdre and the Wailing Widow that he was actually stabbed only once. In his sleep, no less."

"Who'd Dead Deir- only once?" Snape bit out in disbelief. "That old fraud! Since I was a first year, he's been terrorizing students with stories of how he was assassinated in a political plot at the ministry!"

"Nope," she replied smugly. "It seems his mistress caught him sleeping with his wife."

"Shouldn't that be the other way around?"

"Apparently, his wife was quite understanding in that regard. It was his bad luck to get wrapped up with a girlfriend who was possessive.

"Are men always so stupid?" she asked dinengenuously. "Between Nick and the Baron and Peeves, I'm starting to wonder."

"Most of us," he admitted absently. "Something about the opposite sex makes most men a bit barmy."

"Well, that settles it, I guess. I haven't missed anything."

"You haven't missed..." Snape colored suddenly, the slight flush overwhelming the jaundice and making him look much healthier. "I see. I was under the impression you and Mr. Weasley had... educated each other in that regard."

Hermione gave a theatrical sigh. "No. Alas. I've been cut down in my youth, never to experience that pinnacle of experiences." She put a dramatic hand to her temple, then ruined it by giggling.

"Well, that's not strictly true," Severus mused. "You can obviously interact with other ghosts... Oh for Merlin's sake! It's the middle of the night, and I'm discussing your love life with you. Go. Now. I need rest, and you're not helping."

&&&&&

Another night and full day spent in bed was sufficient to see Severus Snape well enough leave his bed, or at least sufficiently fed up that he was motivated to do so. His body proved to be less willing, and he found his usual brisk stride was reduced to an unsteady amble. Rather than dressing completely he pulled his teaching robes on over his nightshirt, buttoning it up to the neck with hands that trembled only a little bit. He deliberately waited until after curfew before attempting to leave his rooms; the last thing he wanted was a student to see him doddering along like a wizard closing in on his second century.

As he'd expected, Dumbledore had cajoled Sinestra into substituting for him, and also as expected, the resulting papers were stacked high on his desk. The professor usually resorted to assigning essays as a way of keeping students out of trouble without causing herself any more work than was absolutely necessary, and it was highly effective in short durations. Severus never dared stay ill longer than a few days, however, out of dread for what state he'd find his classroom if she were actually required to teach.

The difference this time, when he made it to his office, was Hermione Granger sitting at his desk, a brilliant purple ostrich feather quill in her ghostly hand, and a frown of concentration on her pale brow. He had just enough strength left to lower himself into one of his own guest chairs before his legs gave out completely.

"Where the hell is my wand?" he said by way of greeting.

"Good evening, Professor Snape," Hermione replied evenly. "It's in here." She pulled open the top drawer beside her, but made no motion to retrieve it.

"What was it you said last night, about why you couldn't you get it? I thought you had fully mastered the manipulation of the physical."

"It burns," she replied, flipping over another sheet of parchment.

"Why?"

"No idea. I think it's because of the magic in it."

Saving his breath for his efforts, Severus managed to get out of his chair and retrieve the length of pale gray wood. Without his wand, he'd felt naked despite his current dress, and tucking it back into the pocket of his robes was a relief. He had already settled into his previous chair before he considered the thought of evicting Hermione from his usual seat, and blamed it on his fatigue. Catching his haunt's brief questioning glance, he floundered for something to distract her.

"What about the magic?" he asked.

"I have a theory about the polarity of magic, and how ghosts and live ones – and their wands – are on opposite ends of the polarity, but I don't think it's a discussion we should begin when you're barely able to stand up straight."

He gave her a dark look. "I'm perfectly fine," he objected. "And what do you think you're doing with my papers?"

This, apparently, was what Hermione was waiting for him to berate her over, and her reply was cautious. "I'm marking your homework essays. Don't worry, no one will know you didn't do these yourself," she assured him. "This is a Weasley Wizard Wheezes prototype. It's designed to mimic handwriting."

"That sounds like an idea suspiciously open to abuse."

"Well…" Hermione hedged. "The twins did have some trouble getting it licensed, so they adopted an idea from the Marauder's Map. It won't write out wills or anything serious, it only writes insults. Since they're your papers, I doubt anyone will notice the difference."

"Which ones are you working on?"

"The Second Years. I thought I'd leave the older students' papers until the end."

"I usually work the other direction," he commented. "Those at least have a rudimentary grasp of spelling."

"As far as I can tell, Professor, none of your students have a grasp of spelling. Or grammar."

Severus snorted in agreement, watching her pale fingers and the violently purple pen. He watched her for several minutes.

"Why are you doing this, Miss Granger? You've invaded my classroom, my workroom, now my desk has been commandeered."

"You need help," she answered simply.

"I need nothing from you or anyone else."

"All right, consider the fact that perhaps I have the need to help you."

He shot her a look of disbelief and skepticism, which made her glance away before setting her chin obstinately.

"Have you ever lost a book you really wanted to finish?" she asked quietly. "Gone off and left it who knows where, and never got to find out how the story ended?"

Severus nodded once, indicating he was listening.

"I feel like a book that's been left behind. My friends have all gone off, and I've been forgotten. Everything that I wanted to become, everything I might have accomplished. It will never be finished, now.

"If all I have left to contribute is tutoring a few students and doing your scut work, then that at least is better than nothing. My fingers won't shrivel up from washing cauldrons, and if I can spare you time to recover and the students a few lashes of your sarcasm, why shouldn't I?

"Unless you don't trust me to do this properly," she added uncertainly.

A heavy silence filled the room, and Hermione waited, determined not to cringe at the inevitable retort. Long moments passed, but Severus remained silent. His black eyes were impassive, but eventually he took a deep breath and pulled himself to his feet.

"Miss Granger, I don't think you know how to do anything improperly."

He left, his footsteps still lacking his usual vigor, but his stature was upright and, surprisingly, his heart felt lighter than he remembered it being for a very long time.


	8. Chapter 8

The Easter holidays were suddenly upon Hogwarts, leaving the castle empty and quiet. With all the students out of the way, Hermione rather expected her fellow dungeon dweller to be, if not exactly cheerful, at least in a charitable mood. Since his illness, their relationship had gradually eased into the more civilized territory of friendship, and she actually found herself enjoying the Potion Master's acerbic company.

Hermione was therefore somewhat taken aback when Severus greeted her appearance with a snarl. He curtly informed her that he had no need or desire for her presence that evening. He rejected her formerly welcome offer to help inventory his storage room during the break, and went so far as to override her when she mentioned cleaning the latest potion spatters off the ceiling near where she spent her restful daytime hours drifting.

"For the love of Merlin," Hermione finally bit out. "Why are you so grumpy tonight? More than usual, that is?"

The Potion Master's hand slammed down on his desk. "Get out. Go write Potter, go chase the owls for all I care. Just get out!"

Despite his temper, Hermione knew the man well enough to tell the difference between real rage and was seemed suspiciously like embarrassment. Narrowing her eyes, Hermione inspected his person, then the desk he'd been lingering over. Severus glared back, but Hermione ignored him as she moved closer and surveyed the ragged quill and parchment scraps littering his desk. His inkwell had been recently filled, and his energetic scrawls appeared on most of the torn letters. The only other item on his desk was a new issue of Potions Monthly.

It was the work of a moment to grab the publication from under his hand, despite his abortive attempt to snatch it back.

"What have we here?" she crowed, zooming up out of his reach.

"HERMIONE GRANGER, COME DOWN HERE AT ONCE!"

Keeping the enraged man where she could see him in case he tried to 'Accio' her prize, she skimmed the table of contents for whatever had brassed him off so thoroughly. It wasn't difficult to find; the fourth major article announced a new addition to the list of forbidden poisons, designated as the Deadly Knightcap Variation, as discovered by Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and...

"They're JOKING! Neville LONGBOTTOM?" Hermione screeched in disbelief. "This was Professor Dumbledore's idea, wasn't it?"

The look on Severus Snape's face could have pickled every specimen on his shelves. "Yes," he enunciated through a teeth-clenched grimace. "The Headmaster felt it would bolster the young man's self esteem."

"Oh, be serious! Neville is a botanist, not a potions brewer."

"Mr. Longbottom did hit upon the flaw in the Knightime Knockout drops," Severus admitted, albeit in a pained voice. "It would only be fair."

Hermione was surprised he hadn't choked on that remark. "Somehow," she observed archly, "I think it has more to do with the Ministry still thinking you poisoned me deliberately."

"The Ministry may have accepted the accident that led to your demise, Miss Granger, but the Headmaster felt it would be, as he put it, advantageous to include Longbottom in the credit for discovering the poison."

"So, if Neville is innocent, it must therefore be logical that you are innocent," she concluded. "That doesn't really hold true, but I'm sure it's good enough logic for the Ministry."

"If I had ever had any intention of poisoning you, Miss Granger, I would have done so after your third year, rather than waiting until you had nearly left my classes." Resignation and annoyance radiated from Severus' form as he pulled his chair up behind his desk and resumed his seat. "And for my sins, I'll have to live with my work forever linked with that of...Neville Longbottom."

"Well," Hermione commented, her voice casual, "perhaps you'll get the sole credit for rediscovering that healing potion."

His hands shuffling the scraps together in a pile, Severus did not turn a hair. "What potion would that be?" he asked blandly. Hermione wasn't fooled.

"The one in your private laboratory you've been fussing over for weeks now. I keep hoping you'll let me help you out, now that you've so much more time available."

"I don't fuss," he replied testily. "I study."

"No, of course not. What have you found so far?"

Severus gave her an inscrutable look from under heavy eyelids.

"Oh, come off it, Professor. It's interesting, and I'm running out of cauldrons to clean. Nick and Myrtle are determined to drag me to the polo finals and I'm just as determined to avoid that at any cost. You can continue to use me as your personal lab assistant and I get out of several extremely boring headless polo matches."

"That bad?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Worse that Quidditch."

"And what exactly is wrong with Quidditch?"

"Good grief," Hermione muttered, remembering too late that anyone qualified to be a referee was more than likely a fan of the sport. "It must be linked to the Y chromosome."

"Perhaps. Though let's not apply that theory to Madame Hooch, if you please. Very well. As it happens, I'm ready to start some preliminary trials on the South American Phoenix Tears. If the potion does half what that scatter-brained alchemist claims it can, then it may make a significant difference in this war."

Hermione had the cheek to grin at him, and Severus busied himself with the task of tidying his desk before he could give into the impulse to smile back at her.

&&&&&

The next few weeks passed swiftly as Hermione and Severus debated the importance of anonymous ramblings from five centuries ago, in between grading papers and other dull, daily or rather nightly routine. For the most part they rubbed along tolerably well, with only a few incidents of friction between them.

Approximately twice a month, however, the Dark Mark burned and summoned him from his comfortable routine, sending him out into the night and towards the unknown. There were no more Malfoy-incited drinking binges, but on infrequent nights Severus returned with blood on his robes. At those times, he poured himself a carefully measured dram of brandy and drank it in contemplation.

As a rule Hermione did not attempt to speak to him, or even show her presence, but waited nearby, invisible. If Severus called out to her, she materialized and let him talk as much or as little as he wanted. Sometimes he quite obviously wanted distraction, and she provided it with long- ranging conversations. If her silent presence was preferred, she provided it and did not ask any questions.

A vial of dreamless sleep potion sometimes followed the brandy, but not often. She knew he did not like to rely on the drug, both because of its addictive qualities and the perceived weakness he admitted, if only to himself. On those evenings, Hermione waited in the outer chamber of his suite, reading quietly, alert for the sound of his nightmares.

Tonight was one of those nights. His robes had been banished to the laundry; it had taken three Exanguination spells to remove all the spatters from his clothes and hands. He had not summoned her, but spent a very long time staring into the fire before going to bed, bypassing the cabinet where he kept the sleeping potions.

Several hours passed while Hermione waited. She resisted the urge to look in on him – he'd made clear his dislike for hovering nursemaids and still called her Nanny Granger whenever she expressed any concern for his well- being. If his nightmares became severe, she would hear him talking in his sleep and a well-timed thump on the wall or dropped book near the doorway was sufficient to startle the notoriously light sleeper out of his night terrors without intruding on his privacy.

Eventually, the expected muttering came, and Hermione reached for her favorite text for this purpose; an incredibly long and complex treatise on wizarding politics during the goblin wars, and one of Professor Binns' favorite source materials. It had been a gift to the Potions Master from some grateful Slytherin parent whose spawn had managed to scrape up the N.E.W.T.s necessary to qualify for a Ministry flunky position after graduation; Severus used it primarily as a doorstop.

It made a satisfactory thump when it hit the floor, but for once did not have the desired effect. After the third time Hermione lifted the book and dropped it loudly, she became concerned.

Tentatively she phased through his bedroom door; she had not been within the room since his illness several months earlier, but it was apparent little had changed. Papers and books lay on various surfaces in relatively neat stacks. The robes he'd worn before being summoned were in a heap on the floor, looking as though they'd been kicked out of the way. The cabinet where she'd once found his Death Eater mask had been carefully closed and locked.

On the bed, Snape made another painful noise, but so quietly it seemed as though he were afraid of being heard. He did not respond when Hermione called his name, and with great trepidation she went close enough to hover beside the bed.

The man looked amazingly human and vulnerable here in his bed, his long hair disordered and lying in black streaks across the pillowcase. The thin, lightly creased skin over his throat did little to soften the harsh lines of his jaw or the knots of muscle and cartilage of his neck. His adam's apple moved convulsively as strangled words struggled to escape.

Leaning over him, Hermione struggled to understand him, but it was impossible. For a moment it occurred to her that she was leaning over him like a lover about to bestow a kiss, but banished that thought rather than examine it too closely. She was here to help, not put either one of them in a position they'd each find highly uncomfortable even if they weren't on opposite ends of the spectrum of life. What she really needed to do was find a way to break this nightmare, and the only idea that came to mind was the invasion she'd perpetrated once before.

He had not, apparently, remembered her appearance in his dream the night he'd been so terribly ill, but that did not mean he wouldn't remember any further forays. And despite her dread of the inevitable explosion of rage she could expect should he remember the dreams and her role in them, the idea of invading the sleeping Potion Master's mind was abhorrent for better reasons. Harry had made it perfectly clear how horrid it was to feel someone else invade your mind, and the lectures she'd attended on magical ethics had been quite strident on the uses of Legilimency. Traipsing through another being's mind, even with and especially without their permission, was absolutely forbidden except for extreme cases.

But it was allowed, she considered, in cases where a person's life or well beingwell-being was endangered. Severus Snape's life was not in danger, but only a callous person or a man in denial would think that extreme nightmares were not endangering his own health. Teetering on that moral caveat, Hermione steeled her nerve and leaned down, allowing her temple to graze his.

Opening her eyes in the dream reality, Hermione was shocked by what she saw. For miles in every direction, a bleak, barren landscape greeted her. The ground was nothing but dried desert mudflats, cracked into a mosaic of dirt tiles, dusty whirlwinds, and a scattering of withered, skeletal bushes. Overhead a few stars flickered fitfully, unable to compete with thea full moon which cast a thin, sullen light over the distant hills.

A deep, savage howl reverberated across the flats, sending the hairs on the back of Hermione's neck straight up in apprehension. As she cast about for the source of the threatening sound, she could just make out a figure in the distance, running towards her. Running was perhaps too optimistic a word; the man was staggering, barely upright, and looked to be in a great deal of pain.

Moving to intercept the figure, Hermione's command of her native language escaped her grasp as she recognized Severus Snape's dream self, despite the blood and dirt on his features. His mangled left arm was held tight against his body, the white sleeve ragged and blood-soaked.

"You must run," he said urgently, nearly throwing himself at her as he attempted to sweep her along with him. "He'll get you. He'll kill us both." His face was drawn with fear and hopelessness, his dark eyes flat with fatigue. Lines of exhaustion and pain marked his face.

"What?" Hermione demanded, confused. "Who?"

Reeling to a halt, Severus turned and flung out one arm to point behind him. Just coming over the distant hill, a great hulking form appeared. Baying a deep bass note, the slavering werewolf was larger than a hippogriff and loping towards them at a frightening speed.

"Run!" he shouted desperately, grabbing her arm and breaking into a shuffling trot. Hermione stumbled and nearly fell in the shock of the physical contact; only his firm grip kept her upright even as his fingers bit into her arm and ground the bones of her wrist together. "Come on!" he urged her.

"Wait!" she shouted, fighting against his contagious panic. "This is just a dream. YOUR dream."

Severus stopped and peered at her, confused, even as he threw a harried glance at the pursuing werewolf. He was visibly torn between his own desire to escape and reluctance to abandon her to the beast.

Seizing on her own experience and hoping desperately she was right, Hermione held out her hand, palm up. "Take this," she ordered.

A long silver whistle appeared in her palm; Severus stared at it for several moments before he reluctantly released her wrist and reached for it. Chest heaving, he took it from her fingers, lifted it to his lips, and blew.

At the very edge of her hearing, the high sharp pitch of the dog whistle pierced the eardrum and slid through the back of her skull. Several hundred yards away, the werewolf howled in pain as it lost coordination.

Shaking its head, the beast veered off the Potion Master's trail, then back on, its pace reduced to an uncoordinated gallop. It whimpered piteously as Severus blew the whistle again, and as he continued the high-pitched blasts, the creature's weaving path circled to a halt. Under the relentless high-frequency onslaught, it eventually curled into a shivering ball on the ground a scant stone's throw away.

As the whistle dropped from Severus' nerveless fingers, Hermione moved to his side and touched uninjured right arm. "Look," she whispered, remembering his fondness for sunrises. "The sun is coming up."

As he turned to look, her suggestion took root and influenced his reality. The horizon began to glow in a glorious display of reds and violet streaks, until a bright golden sun crept over the jagged skyline. The werewolf shimmered and became a fairly scrawny young man with brown hair, sprawled naked and face down in the dirt.

Exhausted, Severus sagged to his knees, his worn features raised in the pale light of the rising sun.

"Rest," Hermione told him, kneeling beside him. On a hunch she reached over to pull at his injured arm. "Your arm is fine," she told him, pushing up the ragged sleeve. "See? He didn't get you." Under her fingers, the skin was unblemished.

Frowning, Severus looked down at his naked arm, where only fine black hairs graced the back of his forearm. He touched it himself in disbelief, then turned his wrist over to see the underside. Like ink poured on parchment, the Dark Mark blossomed on his skin, turning it black.

Severus choked in despair as the tattoo began to smoke like a brand. His fingers dug at it, as though he could tear it from the flesh that was cracking and beginning to bleed.

"There's nothing there," Hermione told him sharply, capturing his hands with her own. "Nothing," she repeated. "Look at me! This world is what you make it out to be, Severus. There's nothing there. Nothing."

Panic-filled black eyes met her own, daring – begging – her, and Hermione put every ounce of confidence and certainty she could muster into her gaze. When he glanced down at his arm again, the mark was fading, barely gray against his skin and fading faster than dust before an energetic house elf.

"Nothing," he repeated numbly. His eyes closed and he reached blindly for her, cupping the back of her neck with his large hand and resting his forehead against hers. "Thank you," he murmured softly as his strength seemed to give out completely.

As she helped to ease him down to the cracked earth, the ground beneath him began to ripple and become a suspiciously familiar old rug before it began to disintegrate. The entire dreamscape rapidly evaporated around her, leaving her hovering over the Potion Master's bed once more, listening to the quiet rasp of his breathing as he slid into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Hermione paused to watch him before she withdrew, but he did not move. His black hair lay across one cheek, and she nearly gave in to he temptation to brush it away before chiding herself for being silly.

&&&&&

When summer came and the students left, Severus allowed Hermione to become fully involved in his research. He had a great sheaf of papers on the potion he was attempting to tease out of the ancient manuscript, and her first task was to read the entire thing from front to back. While she did spend a portion of her time preparing the preliminary test ingredients to his exacting standards, a larger proportion was spent going over the transcript line by line and debating the meaning of the more esoteric passages.

Trial after trial came up with nothing like the finished product was described as being, which Severus had translated as either a 'bowl of rainbows' or 'vessel of Quetzlquoatl feathers.' Suspecting that the mythical Aztec bird had actually been a phoenix of some sort had been the reason Severus had pegged the recipe as one for a healing potion in the first place, but there were actually no real phoenix tears in the brew.

When a few of their experimentations began to yield some promising results, Severus decided to put it to the test, but had no intention of trying their results on a living test subject. Instead, he had had a word with Poppy, who came back several days later with a muffled package.

"Don't ask any questions," she'd ordered shortly.

The package, when unwrapped, proved to be a platter-sized oval board with a piece of leather stretched across one surface. The other side bore the faded marking 'Property of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.'

"What is that?" Hermione asked curiously, floating over to hover near his elbow.

"It's the hyde of a nauga, stretched over oaken heartwood," Severus answered shortly. He lay the board on the worktable, leather side up, and picked up a one of the small, delicate knives used for preparing their ingredients. With a swift, sure movement he drew the blade sharply across the hide. The soft leather split apart, oozing blood and gaping at the edges exactly like a real wound.

"Ouch," Hermione winced in sympathy, though it had been a long time since she herself had suffered any injuries. "I suppose it's better than torturing rats, though."

"Hmm. I've no objection to feeding a painless sleeping poison to the creatures, but I have no desire to injure and then attempt to heal the little beggers."

"You mean they bite," Hermione pointed out practically.

"Exactly. Now, let's see how our first trial performs."

The salve, while brightly colored, was not the miracle cure it was supposed to be and Severus was obliged to cast a healing charm on the artificial epidermis. The next batch was no more successful, nor the next, but the Potions Master was not deterred.

"The definition of Potions Mastery is trial and error, Miss Granger. Knowledge of your subject is one thing, but more than that it requires patience, focus, and unflagging attention to detail. It may be weeks or even months before a breakthrough occurs."

Although Severus was by nature a night owl, Hermione did her best to be mindful of his human limitations and remind him when he ought to be sleeping rather than fiddling with his experiments. Frequently he ignored her, working until nearly dawn before succumbing to his fatigue. She knew that he slept more soundly when he went to bed exhausted, but sometimes he would heed her words. Calling her Nanny and telling her not to get herself in a pother, he racked his tools and allowed her to do the clearing up while he retired.

This soon became a routine, broken only by infrequent summons from Voldemort, and continued throughout June and July, all the way until the last week of August. By then, Hermione was seething with frustration at their lack of progress, but the Potions Master became even more exacting, only occasionally short-tempered, and ice-cold in his concentration on the puzzle that consumed nearly all his attention.

The latest batch made no more difference than the first, though the notes they'd accumulated on the recipe variations were nearly twice as thick as when they'd started and bottled samples of their failed versions were taking up three full shelves on the nearby case.

"I refuse to believe anyone with such sloppy thinking as this fellow would have been able to create a potion requiring such exacting methods," Hermione exclaimed as yet another recipe failed to give any results.

"There's no proof that this text is anything other than the cluttered maundering of a liar and braggart," Severus pointed out in a sharp tone, his own exasperation overcoming his usually controlled demeanor. "For all the evidence we've seen, this elixir is no more a curative that troll drool."

A few quick slashes of his wand cleared the refuse from their efforts and emptied the cauldron at the same time. Hermione refrained from pointing out that he'd failed to bottle the example to join the others.

Instead she floated over to the manuscript, still securely sandwiched between two sheets of glass on the heavy lectern where it was kept. "And no one that sloppy would have gone to the trouble of putting it in code unless there was something worth hiding," she added, glaring at it as though she could force the secret to the surface with just her gaze.

Severus walked over to stand beside her to inspect it as well. "I've been reluctant to admit it, but we are making no progress, only waste. Without further information, we are at an impasse.

"Professor Flitwick assures me there is at least one spell suspended in the text, but he was unable to discern its nature before he left for the holidays. When this was written, there existed only a few literate wizards and they were extremely vigilant when it came to selecting their apprentices and passing along their knowledge."

As if he'd made a decision, Severus picked up the glass carefully and carried the manuscript to the nearby worktable. Removing the brackets that held the glass sheets together, he lifted off the top sheet and laid it aside. "Europe was still cheerfully burning witches during that era as well," he added, "which leads me to assume there were a few very select standard spells shared among the literati."

"Did you ask Professor Binns' opinion on that?"

His upper lip curled a bit. "Yes. I did."

Hermione bit her lip to keep from laughing at the thought of Severus having to suffer through a long-winded explanation from Binns. No matter how pared down the question, her fellow ghost was notorious for adding far too much information to what should have been a yes or no answer.

The gray wand outlined the edges of the parchment as though measuring it before he opened his mouth to cast the spell.

"Wait!" Hermione said abruptly.

"Don't ever interrupt me!" Severus thundered, nearly dropping his wand.

"I've just thought of something," she explained quickly, attempting to forestall his anger. "If you had done this much work to hide something, wouldn't you set a trap for the most obvious attempt to uncover it?"

His black eyes bored into her silvery ones, but she could tell he was thinking. "Encrypting the spell," he said aloud, as though trying the words out.

"Get the translation," Severus ordered, reaching for an inkwell and a quill. Hermione swiftly fetched the thick packet of notes and flipped them open to the code key he'd painstakingly constructed. Muttering under his breath while coding the incantation, he finished it, read it once, and then cast the new spell.

Like ripples on water, light spread across the parchment in waves, highlighting his harsh features from below. The phenomenon lasted only a few seconds before subsiding. Hermione and Severus nearly pounced on the ancient page to see what had changed, but it lay there on its glass, appearing exactly as it had for the last several months.

"Well," Hermione declared, unable to find a word to express her disgust. "That was hardly productive."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Severus told her, still examining the text minutely. "Any reaction is progress at this point. For all we know it will require some time for a noticeable change."

"Time, I have," Hermione said tartly. "Patience is another matter."

"You'll learn," he replied, capping his ink once more, resigned to another night spent without progress. Once the glass plate was repositioned and the clamps reapplied, Hermione picked it up, intending to replace it on the lectern where it was kept. Severus made an aborted effort to reach for it, but pulled his hand back.

"I'm not going to drop it," Hermione reassured him. "Do you trust no one to be competent besides yourself?" she asked lightly, moving away.

His hawk-like gaze followed as Hermione carried the manuscript away just to make sure it arrived safely. "I realize that," he admitted, not answering her question directly. "I'd probably do the same if you were corporeal." He kept watch as she crossed in front of the cauldron stand and was treated to the sight of her form outlined against the flickering light of the burner.

The fact that Hermione was female rarely occurred to Severus, and when it did it usually had more to do with her personality than her person. Had she truly been corporeal, he mused, it was possible he might have seen the outline of her body through her robes at that moment. As a ghost, however, the light shone through her entire torso as well as the plates in her hands.

"Do that again," he ordered abruptly.

"What?"

"Move. Over there," he made a motion with his finger, indicating a spot near the cauldron.

Mystified, Hermione did as he demanded and floated sideways until she occupied a spot between him and the work table. As if in a daze, Severus walked over and took the glass panel from her hand. Lifting it, he held it out before him, blocking his view of the burner. The steady flame lit the parchment just as it had Hermione's form a few moments earlier.

"Do you see that?"

Hermione swooped to his side in an instant. With the light shining through the parchment, it revealed a half-circle with shimmering rays radiating from it.

"I see it, but I don't know what it means. It looks like a setting sun."

"Aurora," he breathed. "Roman goddess of the dawn, and the root word for all things golden."

"Gold?" she repeated. "Then why not use the alchemy symbol – circle with a dot in it, right?"

"Yes, and it was widely used in the Middle Ages. Now, it's considered archaic, but then, alchemy and potions making were not separate disciplines as they are now. In our unknown wanderer's day, everyone and his Muggle cousin would have understood the circle and dot icon to mean gold. No, he meant to hide this from the casual reader."

"That would explain why he was in South America, I suppose. So now what? Do we need to put gold in this?"

"Not precisely," Severus told her pensively. Abruptly, he thrust the plates into her grasp. "Start again, but cut the formulation by half," he ordered as he left the room. Unexpectedly alone, Hermione saluted the empty doorway before replacing the parchment in its holder and addressing the worktable once more.

She had all the ingredients laid out and was tidying up by the time Severus came back. In his arms he carried a cauldron smaller than Hagrid's four- pint mug at the Three Broomsticks. His long legs were bowed out in an undignified and very uncomfortable looking position.

"Is that thing SOLID gold?" Hermione asked.

"Very solid," grunted Severus. He staggered slightly as he heaved it onto the workbench. The thunk it made echoed through the stone room.

"You're lucky you didn't rupture something. Couldn't you have given it a Leviosa? Where did you find it, anyway?"

"It's impervious to spells," Severus explained, leaning on the table surface, one hand in the small of his back. "And I borrowed this from the Headmaster's hoard. Our school budget hardly extends to this kind of equipment, but Dumbledore was an alchemist for seventy years before he gave it up for the dubious joys of teaching. As both Headmaster and alchemist, he's in a position to collect the oddest bits and pieces."

"Like what?"

Severus threw a quelling glance at her, but answered anyway. "Mirrors, philosopher's stones and gold cauldrons are only a few of the things he's got squirreled away, Miss Granger."

Fishing into the pocket of his robes, Snape withdrew a set of gold implements. From another pocket he took out a small mortar and pestle. A heavy gold plating covered the head of the pestle, leaving the last third of the translucent green stone for a handle, and the dish of the mortar was plated with solid gold as well.

Within an hour, the little cauldron had produced a small sample of their most promising concoction. The Nauga hyde was once more split open, and a generous dollop of the colorful mixture applied.

They both waited, Hermione breathless by nature, Severus refusing to be unnerved, until the edges of the wound began to knit themselves back together, slowly repairing the damage.

"Next time you move that thing, try putting it on a platform of some sort and Leviosa the platform," Hermione advised absently, still focused on the mending hyde.

"Duly noted, Nanny Granger," Severus shot back, momentarily annoyed he hadn't thought of that before carting the thing down five flights of stairs. "I'm not sure we've made a breakthrough," he commented. "This is promising, but there are already countless other ointments on the market that can heal wounds like this."

"It certainly wouldn't heal someone who's just had his heart cut out," she observed. "I can't say I personally would have let someone drain me dry on an altar even if I knew I'd be perfectly fine the next day, but I can see this as a useful tool for religious ceremonies." The incision was now almost completely sealed, although a large ridge of healing tissue covered the seam.

"Does your translation actually say it's a salve?" Hermione asked. "I thought he made a few references to drinking along with everything else."

"Hmm," Severus answered thoughtfully. "It's possible this should be a drinkable potion. We won't know for sure without more trials."

He shot a sidelong glance at Hermione, waiting for her reaction, but she was staring off into space with a glazed look in her eyes.

"Hermione?" he called, concerned.

At the sound of her name, Hermione shook herself out of her reverie. "I'm sorry, Professor, but I think the sun is coming up. I'm starting to fade."

For ghosts, this was a literal description; as he watched her body seemed to lose cohesiveness.

"I asked if you were aware of the work we still have ahead of us. Though if you'd rather go watch your sunrise, I'm sure I'll be able to carry on without you."

Hermione gave him an exasperated look she once reserved for Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. "Of course I want to be involved," she told him. "It's just that I'm tired, and so are you if you're snapping at me like that."

"You're right, of course. We've worked all through the night, but at least we've some progress to show for it. Very well; let's leave it for now and come back to it tomorrow." A flick of his wand cleared the organic debris; he was obliged to heave the cauldron across the room to a locked cabinet. Even in his private laboratory he habitually locked away anything either valuable or dangerous. Hermione followed behind, carrying the implements, and put them alongside the cauldron.

"Do you want to go watch the sun rise?" Hermione asked, yawning, as Severus warded the cabinet with its precious contents. "There's a wonderful spot at the top of the staircases; I spend a great deal of my time up there." Severus gave her an odd look and she had a momentary flash panic, thinking he'd remembered her intrusion on his werewolf nightmare.

His next comments, despite the scathing tone, put her at ease. "What would possibly prompt me to climb sixteen flights of stairs just to see the sun rise?" he asked. "I'm going to bed and savor these last few weeks of summer before the horde descends once more. If you want to be of use to me, you can calculate the supply orders for the students; Minerva has finally given me an headcount of the incoming first years."

"I'll be here," Hermione promised, covering another yawn.

Severus gave her a short nod of farewell, but she was already de- materializing, one hand giving a languid wave as she disappeared. He stared at the empty spot for a moment before shaking his head and proceeding to his bed.


	9. Chapter 9

Just like every other year, the final week of August saw Hogwarts bustling with activity as the school and grounds were made ready for the imminent invasion of students. A steady stream of deliveries arrived by various means to stock the kitchen and classrooms. The Potions dungeon alone received three separate shipments from various apothecary supply houses. With all the comings and goings, no one noticed when Remus Lupin slipped onto the grounds late one afternoon.

Arthur Weasley arrived near tea time, bearing the usual missive from the Ministry with the official objections to the Headmaster's latest Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. Kingsley Shacklebolt accompanied him, as most Ministry officials were routinely accompanied by an Auror for safety's sake. They were graciously invited to stay for dinner, and the two men graciously accepted.

Nymphadora Tonks Apparated to the edge of Hogsmeade, skirted her way through the edges of the Forbidden Forest until she made it to Hagrid's hut. She and the half-giant shared a cuppa and some of Hagrid's rock hard scones before making their way up between the greenhouses and into the back entrance of the school.

Hermione herself caught Alastor Moody as he stumped his way through the sixth floor corridor towards the Room of Requirement. His famously rolling eye kept a sharp look out all around, but he gave no indication that he detected her presence as she floated invisibly near the doorway leading to the main staircase. Remaining silent and unseen, Hermione merely nodded towards the retired Auror and maintained her post, keeping a careful watch for anything unusual as the Order of the Phoenix gathered.

Despite her vigilance, she nearly missed the odd glimmer of shadow on the floor where no shadow should be. At first, she thought it was merely a trick of the light thrown from the torches, which had sprung to life after the sun had gone down, but in fits and starts the wavering shadow moved stealthily and steadily along the floor towards the Room of Requirement.

"Who goes there?" she demanded as she swooped down towards the shadow, the words sounding stupid even as they came out of her mouth. The reaction was gratifying, however, as a stifled exclamation and a hex burst from the invisible person at nearly the same moment. The spell passed harmlessly through Hermione's form before taking a fist-sized chunk from the opposite stone wall.

With a sharp flick of its wrist, a strong hand emerged from the nothingness, bearing a dark wand. It moved rapidly back and forth, searching for an opponent, but as a lone hand in mid-air it was both odd looking and oddly familiar. Small silver scars showed on the back.

"Harry?" Hermione called uncertainly. On impulse she appeared, hoping she was correct.

The hand hesitated, then rose up and pushed back the hood of the invisibility cloak, revealing messy black hair, vivid green eyes, and a famous scar.

"Hermione?" Harry queried. "Is that really you?"

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione knew she was grinning madly, but didn't care. "It's so good to see you!"

Harry, too, wore a broad smile. His head now floated in mid-air, along with his hand, but to Hermione that was hardly disconcerting. After having one of the Headless Horsemen flirt with her before a match – his head firmly clamped under one arm as it spouted overblown flattery – talking to a floating head was nothing out of the ordinary.

"It's great to see you, too," Harry said. "You look different – I almost didn't recognize you."

"Do I?" she asked, surprised. To Hermione, she looked as she had always imagined herself, though without the student uniform. "How have you been?"

"I'm all right. Sorry I haven't written lately – I've been pretty busy, really."

"I know, I've seen the articles in the Prophet." She giggled at the face Harry made, knowing he would react that way.

"You wouldn't believe how many complaints the Aurors College made against the Prophet, trying to make them stop following me around. They finally had to get an injunction from the Ministry."

"It's a good thing they're not here now," Hermione said with a chuckle, indicating the hole in the opposite wall. "You know they'd come up with something outlandish about that."

"Sorry about that," said Harry sheepishly. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, of course not. You know most spells don't affect ghosts."

"That's right, we looked it up that one time. Did you ever find out all the answers you were looking for?"

"Not exactly. I've been working on some other things, but I do have some theories I'd like to go over some time."

Harry shrugged. "You know I've never been that great with theory. If you want to talk about that sort of stuff, you should really talk to Moody. He's always going on about things like phases of the moon and such. Most of it's pure guff if you ask me, but he's a cagey old bugger."

"And you're a late young bugger, as well as a cheeky one," added a rough voice from down the hall. "Hurry up – the others are waiting."

"Coming," Harry told Moody, who had ducked back into the Room of Requirement.

After another quick glance up and down the corridor, he yanked off the invisibility cloak and rapidly rolled it up, revealing his official Auror robes. A pin representing two crossed wands on his collar showed his rank, which had been rapidly advancing during his short career. Despite his self-deprecating manner, Harry Potter was a crack Auror and well respected by those peers who didn't give a bent Knut for his fame, only for what he could do with a wand.

"You're coming, aren't you?" he called over his shoulder when Hermione made no move to follow him.

"I'm not a member of the Order," Hermione told him, proud of the way her voice didn't reveal any of the regret she'd felt at being excluded.

"You would have been, so I'm inviting you now," Harry countered. The assurance in his voice was a far cry from the modest and unassuming boy he'd been. "Besides, you were always the one who figured out how to make work any of the wild ideas Ron and I came up with. Makes me wonder how I've managed without you!"

None of the other order members protested as Hermione followed Harry into the Room of Requirement. He quietly cast a complicated ward before taking the last empty chair and patting the high back, indicating where he wanted her to sit. She settled her weightless self on the spot indicated and gave her attention to the meeting.

Most of the evening was spent discussing rumors, Death Eater activities, prevention and countermeasures. Some time was devoted to debate over whether folk who had recently disappeared were refugees fleeing from possible Death Eater persecution, Death Eaters themselves, or already victims of the same.

After a while, the meeting turned to Voldemort himself, and the few scraps and bits of information Snape had been able to glean from his spying activities. Facts were hard to come by, and he had only the swirling cloud of rumor and back-biting between Death Eaters to base his information on. Stray comments and innuendo were collated into a sketchy portrait of the Dark Lord's current mood and plans.

"He no longer seems to eat," was one tidbit Hermione found interesting, if slightly disturbing. "Any appetite he has is for blood, and quite a bit of that is spilled. Punishment and torture are often bloodier than they have been."

"He absorbs it?" she asked.

The infamous Snape Sneer was watered down, but still recognizable. "He doesn't drink it, if that's what you're asking."

"No, but you indicated he stays close to the victim – that he seems to enjoy it, almost feed off it. I was thinking of something I read about ghosts or spirits who feed off the negative energy of pain and despair."

"Like the Dementors do?" Arthur Weasley queried.

"Exactly!"

"So you think You Know Who has turned into a Dementor?" asked Tonks.

"Well, perhaps not exactly, but close. Is anyone familiar with the concept of polarity?" Hermione asked.

Severus frowned thoughtfully. "I've heard the theory, but it's not a concept used in the wizarding world," he confessed.

"I'll bet Dementors are on the opposite end of the magic polarity," she announced. "And I think Voldemort is close to that end, too."

"And what do you know of magic polarity, Miss Granger?" asked the Headmaster in a slightly frosty tone.

Surprised at the hostility suddenly focused on her, Hermione gathered herself. "It's an idea that occurred to me when Professor Snape was ill," she answered. "I theorized that magic has a polarity, just like magnetism or electricity."

Dumbledore nodded into his beard. "Go on," he said.

"Well, just as magnetism has a polarity, and just as electricity flows between a positive and negative, perhaps magic has both a positive and negative flow."

"And what exactly do you base this theory on?"

"Temperature, or what I perceive at heat. Real fire doesn't feel any different to me than rock or wood. It's a different texture, but no temperature difference. People, however, and magical implements, they feel horrid. The Muggle boy I haunted just after I became a ghost, he was merely unpleasantly warm, but full-fledged magic folk are much worse. The time I touched Professor Snape's wand, it was like hot lava."

Intrigued, Severus inhaled through his impressive nose like a bloodhound scenting prey. "What about other ghosts? What sensations do you receive from them?"

"Cool, actually. Pleasantly cold, almost comfortingly so. The Baron, especially, can be quite comforting if he's not shouting at us."

Fingering his left forearm thoughtfully, he made a 'hmm' sound. "The Dark Mark… when it burns, it looks like a brand but it's actually quite cold…"

"Really? Cold, as in the way a ghost feels cold?"

Snape nodded, and they looked at each other intently. Each could see the other's mind whirling with ideas and coming close to the same conclusion.

Kingsley Shacklebolt glanced at the clock, which stood at 'Getting Awfully Late.' "I'm certain this is all very fascinating, but what's the point of it all?"

"The point, Shacklebolt, is that we may be onto something here."

Hermione leapt in. "You know that most spells don't affect ghosts. The few that do are oddly different from the standard hexes, and those hexes have almost no effect on humans, Muggle or Wizard."

Harry's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but Shacklebolt and the others looked blank. Hermione barreled on, hoping to clarify things.

"What if... what if the temperature I feel, that humans feel from ghosts, is not really heat as we know it but more to do with the polarity of magic? A wizard's wand is as close to pure magic as it gets, the spells and enchantments on the core and the wood, not to mention the fact that it constantly acts as a channel for magic. It's intensely hot to me, and most live people find an unsuitable wand burns their hand. The Dark Mark burns cold, according to what Professor Snape just said. I was close to him once when he was summoned, and it was very cool to me, almost familiar, but it was very unsettling."

"Voldemort has gone to great lengths in his search for immortality," Severus pointed out. "Ghosts are supposedly immortal. What if some of the things he's done to make himself immortal have changed his polarity, so to speak, so that normal magic, the normal world as we know it, no longer affects him?"

"He's been damned hard to hit with a spell," Moody rumbled. "We've actually had a wand up on him, once or twice, and gotten sod-all for our efforts."

"Do you really believe that somehow his search for immortality has affected this alignment?" Remus Lupin asked. He, more than the other pure-blood wizards, had a solid grounding in theoretical spell manufacture.

Harry's green eyes were wide with eagerness as he put two and two together. "If Voldemort has changed himself so far as to realign his magical polarity, then a set of spells designed just for him could be what we need to kill him, once and for all!"

"It's possible," Dumbledore spoke at last, his voice heavy with meaning. "That could explain a lot of things."

Everyone in the room had turned to the Headmaster, recognizing the tone of his voice. He made a grimace, but pushed back his hat and scratched thoughtfully at his forehead. "It's not widely known, but Miss Granger is entirely correct. Nicholas Flamel and I discovered that magic has a polarity some decades ago. We decided there are some things that are better left unknown and did not publish our findings. I'd forgotten about it until now."

"You mean you knew about magical polarity and said nothing?" demanded Hermione, offended. "Knowledge like that needs to be shared. It needs to be studied!"

"It was during dark times, Miss Granger," Dumbledore told her mildly. "We judged it better off lost than in the wrong hands."

Hermione crossed her arms with a humph of displeasure, forcing both Harry and Severus to hide a smile with varying degrees of success.

"Same old Hermione," said Harry quietly.

Severus was forced to agree. "Headmaster, if you have any of your old research still available on this subject, I should hope you'll make it available for further study. It could very well make a difference when the inevitable confrontation comes."

"Nymphadora and I will be glad to work on those with you, Snape," volunteered Moody. "She may be dead clumsy, but she can cast a hex with the best of them."

"Flattery like that will get you nowhere, old man," Tonks shot back. "And Remus should be involved, too. Give us your best guesses, Snape, and the three of us will work it out."

"It would not be prudent for Severus to leave the castle too often," Remus reminded them all. "We'll duplicate the research so each of us has a copy, but we should keep contact to a minimum."

Dumbledore voiced his agreement to this plan, and promised to search through his old files for the old research. This seemed to be the signal for them to break up the meeting at last.

"Brilliant, Hermione!" Harry told her as he left. "I should have known we could always count on you to come up with something."

Hermione blushed silver, but it was the quiet comment from Severus that meant more to her. Leaving the Room of Requirement in the wake of the others, he had turned and murmured a parting remark to her.

"You see, Miss Granger? You're not a forgotten book after all."

&&&&&

Only the dire prospect of possibly waking Severus Snape kept an expletive behind Hermione's tightly clenched teeth as she reapplied herself once more to her search of his bookshelf. He had mentioned the reference tome to her a few nights ago – more than once, actually. Surely he had meant to get it for her. Surely, he wouldn't mind if she got it herself. Surely, he wouldn't care if she borrowed it, especially if she returned it before he noticed it missing.

Reassured by her own specious logic, and even more so by the steady sound of light snoring coming from Severus Snape's bedroom, Hermione started over – again – at the top of his shelves. It would have been nice if he'd actually mentioned the title of the book, rather than tossing off a casual comment about the author. Was it too much to ask that he might have said "that RED manual by Discorides," or "the manual I left on the third shelf down?"

Apparently, it was. Several times already she'd been over the bookshelves in Snape's sitting room, the ones on the opposite wall where they wouldn't be damaged by the temperature fluctuations from the fire, as well as the set of shelves in his office and the rack in his lab. Nowhere in evidence was anything that resembled the text she was looking for.

Which left her with two options: wait patiently until tomorrow evening, or venture into the serpent's den… 'Do stop being melodramatic,' Hermione told herself firmly. 'It's not like you haven't been there before.'

And it wasn't as though he would shout at her. As a matter of fact, it had been some time since he'd vented his considerable venom at her. Still, she hadn't invaded his room in ages. Well. Except for his occasional nightmares. Nightmares he apparently had no memory of, and Hermione's perusal of the admittedly scanty research into dreams and memories of dreams in Hogwarts' library told her that most people did not remember their dreams very often, unless they were exceptionally vivid or traumatic. And Snape's scale of traumatic was skewed so far it was nearly out of sight.

Steeling herself, she gently phased through the door of his room and scanned the room. The absolute darkness did not keep her from making out the shelves, but unfortunately they held no books, only a scant few personal trinkets. A stack of reading material lay on the floor near the bed, but most of them were periodic publications, not valuable reference books.

Finally giving in to her disappointment, Hermione turned to go, only to hear a moan from behind the dark curtains which were drawn around the bed. She waited a moment, reluctant to violate his privacy any more than she already had. It had been several weeks since he'd been summoned to the Dark Lord's court, and because of that it had been a while since she'd kept a vigil against his nightmares.

Another sound came from the shrouded bed, adding to Hermione's conflict and reminding her that she had good reason to be worried about the man. The dual lives he led as unpopular professor and spy in the Death Eaters were enough to break another man, but he had borne those pressures for an exceptionally long time without complaint. A nasty temper, perhaps, and a vastly reduced tolerance for any nonsense of any sort, but no complaints.

A third unspecified sound made up her mind. Poking her head through the curtains, she could make out the lumps under the blankets as Snape lying mostly on his stomach. The pillows had been pushed up and away, leaving him only his own arm to rest his head upon. His other arm lay flung out over the covers, almost as if begging for something.

For several long moments Hermione hovered over the sleeping man, until his throat forced another strangled sound out, his head twisting against his arm and causing the black strands of his hair to fall across his craggy features. Gathering her concentration, Hermione leaned over the sleeping man and allowed herself to sink into his unconscious mind.

No landscape revealed itself to her mind's eye; instead her body seemed wrapped in warm, encompassing weight and tension. A deep thrumming ache within her grew to an unbearable pitch, causing her nipples to peak and an uncontrollable moan to come from her without realizing it. From nowhere a mouth pressed onto hers, and a pair of demanding hands pulled at her body.

"I want you," murmured a voice, baritone and masculine and thrilling her in ways she'd never felt before. Other sensory data were missing, sight and smell, but electrifying sensations washed over her, around her, overwhelming her sense of up or down. Helplessly she was swept along towards an unknown pinnacle, one that was at once exhilarating and terrifying.

The uncertainty and fear edged their way past the pleasure, and with a wrench Hermione separated herself from Severus' dream. Below the man slumbered on, oblivious to the ghost that hung, shocked and disoriented.

"All right. NOT a nightmare," she said unnecessarily.

&&&&&

Rising up through the ceiling, Hermione spent the rest of the night hours aimlessly wandering the hallways of Hogwarts. The sudden thought that Severus Snape was a man after all, subject to all the facets of that condition, had left an unsettled and hollow ache within her. Thinking of Severus, both sparring and research partner, in those terms made her terribly uncomfortable. And for once, she could not formulate an acceptable theory for this reaction.

Hermione had seen Severus Snape out of his teaching robes no more than a handful of times in all the years that she'd known him, and on each occasion she was forced to remind herself that he was actually a human being under that black cloak of fabric. This time, however, was even more startling than usual since he had shed both the robes and his frock coat, leaving him clad in shirt, vest, and of all things a long white apron. The broom in his hand was the ordinary variety, and was currently employed in sweeping a pile of broken glass and other debris into a pile.

"What happened?!" she asked floating in a small spiral as she surveyed the damage. "Did something explode?"

"Not yet," Severus answered in clipped tones. "Though if I find the right incantation, I'll certainly see to it that a particular poltergeist does indeed explode."

"Peeves did this," Hermione guessed in disbelief. "What happened to the wards you put up?"

Severus glared at the bits sent scuttling by the wrath of his broom. "I cannot ward this room against spirits, Miss Granger. There is no way to exclude Peeves without that extending to yourself."

A gasp of mingled rage and sorrow made him pause in his clearing-up; he glanced over to see Hermione had found the remains of the original manuscript. The parchment was just so many scraps, the protective glass shattered beyond any Reparo. He'd already seen the damage and had opted to leave it until last in the slim hopes that he might salvage at least part of it. The sight of his personal haunt doubled over in grief prompted him to try to offer some comfort.

"I'll have a word with the Baron, Miss Granger. This isn't the first time Peeves has wreaked havoc in my lab but he's gone too far."

Several bits of debris began to vibrate on the floor and the table between them.

"Miss Granger?" he inquired, slightly disturbed as he registered the sudden drop in the room's temperature.

"Bugger the Baron!" Hermione bit out. She turned to him, her eyes larger than physiology had ever made them, and glowing slightly with a dark gleam, a black light shining full of fury. He frowned tightly at her appearance; her usually neat gray robes had become alive, as though stirred by an invisible wind, and her hair began to writhe around her face like Medusa's snakes. A terrible sound like rushing wings filled the room as she let out an inarticulate screech of fury and abruptly shot through the ceiling.

Setting his chair upright, Snape debated for a moment before setting off in pursuit of his personal haunt. He wasn't sure exactly what Hermione could do to Peeves, but the Baron ought to be warned of the confrontation about to ensue.

In any event, it ought to be entertaining.

Hermione could not have said exactly how she knew where Peeves was lurking, but like an arrow speeding towards a stuffed bulls-eye she flew through the castle, leaving tapestries fluttering and a deep, teeth-chattering chill in her wake. The poltergeist must have sensed her coming, for he was retreating down the second floor corridor when she caught sight of him, laughing inanely and throwing out insults even as he back-pedaled.

"Was the Professor sniveling over his precious toys?" he jeered, waggling his long feet at Hermione. "Shouldn't leave such pretty things out to play with! Ickle Firsties and nasty Slytherins will come to put sticky fingers all over them!"

Clenching her teeth, Hermione followed the bouncing jester through several walls and down through the floor. Peeves tried to lose her by zig-zagging among the classrooms and taking sharp turns, but she was not to be deterred.

"I'm going to tie those sticky fingers of yours around your neck in a bow tie!" she shouted, cutting off his attempt to dodge past her. "You're going to regret EVER coming in the dungeons!"

A loud raspberry was the poltergeist's reply, but his maniacal grin was looking a bit strained and his protuberant eyes were rolling wildly as he swerved among the statues and suits of armor. One set went down with a wild crash, but did nothing to stop his pursuer.

His cackles were sounding a bit thin as he rounded the great staircase and fled down it. He looped once around the great lamp at the end, but Hermione anticipated the move and dodged the other direction, nearly catching him as he came around again. Peeves let out a shriek as she grabbed the end of his pointy toed boot and ripped it right off, leaving his stodgy, hairy toes bare to the world.

Desperate now, the poltergeist shot towards the dungeon entrance, only to let out another screech as Professor Snape appeared at the top of the stairs with his wand brandished. Reversing directions, Peeves flew towards the hall opposite and the entrance to the Great Hall.

Ignoring Snape's call after her, Hermione gave chase and popped through the huge doors directly behind her quarry. The accumulated throng of students eating their dinner startled them both momentarily, but Hermione ignored them in favor of tackling Peeves just as he attempted to zip over the Ravenclaw table and disappear through the floor below.

With a tremendous crash, the two spirits slid down more than half the length of the table, scattering dishes and food in every direction. Students leapt to their feet, screaming, adding to the chaos. At the head table, the teachers rose in one consternated body, only to pause as Dumbledore raised his hands and motioned them to wait.

As Snape followed the crashing into the Great Hall, he could see nothing over the crowded heads of the students all standing about, their voices raised in a murmuring sea. Through the din, a heavy banging made itself known, accompanied by Hermione Granger's voice, shouting. Forcing his way through the crowd, he stopped short at the sight of Hermione kneeling on Peeves' stomach, his jester's hat clenched in both fists, emphasizing her words by pounding his head against the solid wood of the table. The hat did very little to cushion the impacts.

"If you EVER(bang) come into my lab AGAIN(bang) I'll stuff(bang) you in a BARREL(bang) and TOSS(bang) you down the SEWAGE(bang)drain! Don't you EVER(bang) come near my WORK(bang) ever again, you MISERABLE(bang) little insect!(bang-bang-bang)"

"It was just a joke," protested her victim, attempting a weak laugh. "Can't you take a joke?"

"A joke?" Hermione shrieked. "You want a joke?" Her hand ruthlessly dove into the pocket of Peeve's purple checked jacket. "I'll show you a joke," she threatened, coming up with a handful of Dungbombs. As Peeves gaped at her, she thrust her fist, Dungbombs and all, into his mouth. His eyes grew immensely, comically wide as his face expanded to accommodate her hand, and then even larger as she grabbed the boot she'd previously torn off him and stuffed it into his mouth as well.

"THIS is a joke, Peeves!" she declared, pinching his lips shut around the protruding heel of the boot, even as the Dungbombs began to detonate. His eyes bulged grotesquely, along with his cheeks and nose, as the muffled explosions resonated through his body. A vile yellow smoke began to stream from his ears, sending the nearest students staggering away, coughing.

A huge plume of smoke erupted as Hermione released his mouth. Peeves coughed and choked out several more puffs, but only struggled feebly as Hermione seized first his arms, then his legs, bending them in directions nature had never intended. Fortunately, not being corporeal, her move only caused him to squeal in indignation rather than pain. She ignored his yowling as she forced both of his long, spindly legs to fold up against his chest, then tied his arms together in a square knot.

Peeves belched loudly as he peered up at Hermione, rather awkwardly considering he was tied up like a Christmas package. "Here, now," he protested. "You can't leave me like this! It's not dignified!"

"Oh, I'm not going to leave you like that, Peeves," Hermione assured him, holding out her hand. A cricket bat materialized in her grip out of nothing, although no team would have ever gotten away with fielding a player with such an oversized piece of equipment. "I just want to be sure you know what's going to happen to you the next time you bother my things," she told him.

"You wouldn't," Peeves begged, wiggling slightly and managing to rock from side to side. "All right, I'll leave your things alone. Miss Granger, I promise – I'll be good, really. I PROMISE!"

"You'd better," Hermione warned him, even as she hauled back with the six foot bat. "If you know what's good for you, Peeves, you'd better stay the hell away from me."

"AUUGGHHHHHH!!!!" screamed Peeves as the bat swung down, and with a mighty thwack sent him flying over the heads of the students, who ducked anyway, through the far wall of the Great Hall, and out into the evening air.

Hagrid, coming in late for dinner, was mystified by the sound of a large splash coming from the lake, but shrugged it off as another antic of the giant squid. The giant squid was equally mystified by the struggling ball of purple-checked poltergeist sinking down past his realm, but shrugged it off as another antic of those strange land walkers above.

In the silence of the Great Hall, Hermione banished her bat and gazed around the room, suddenly realizing she had an audience of several hundred astonished students and teachers. Glancing up, she saw the Baron, the Gray Lady, Sir Nicholas and Professor Binns staring down at her. The general air of expectant shock held for several very, very long moments.

Paper thin, the sound of a single pair of hands clapping broke the silence, and everyone in the room turned to see Professor Dumbledore standing before his huge chair, clapping. The students likewise began to applaud, slowly at first, their enthusiasm growing like an avalanche accompanied by a roar of excited voices, cheers, and much laughter.

Thoroughly embarrassed, Hermione bobbed a short bow to the mass and rose up to join the rest of the assembled ghosts in the rafters of the room. The Gray Lady tucked her arm through Hermione's and patted her hand.

"That wasn't precisely what I'd consider lady-like, Hermione, dear," tutted the beautiful ghost. "Though I won't deny I've often wanted to do that to Peeves. I just hope you won't make a habit of that kind of spectacle."

"No, not planning on it," Hermione gritted out, still blushing bright silver. "Oh, please don't tell me the Baron was here," she moaned, noticing the Slytherin ghost floating down towards the Head Table. "Is he terribly upset with me?"

"Not at all," the Lady soothed. "He's just gone down to have a word with the Headmaster and his head of house," she pointed out. "The dear Baron will smooth everything over. Don't you worry."

Relieved, Hermione peered down to where the Baron had indeed stopped between the Headmaster's chair and the dark, lean form of Severus Snape. The three were apparently involved in a discussion of her sins. Hermione devoutly hoped Professor Dumbledore's applause was an indication that he approved of her actions; after all, Peeves had been exceptionally obnoxious lately.

Little did Hermione know that while the three males of various centuries were indeed discussing her assault on Peeves, it had little to do with whether or not she had been justified in her actions.

"Impressive, wouldn't you say, Stockard?" Albus murmured to the Baron.

"It proves nothing," replied the Baron in a surly tone. "The gel was angry, and I doubt she could have kept Peeves under control for much longer."

"Perhaps not," Dumbledore allowed. "But you must admit her potential. Don't you think so, Severus?"

Severus Snape, scowling as he digested the fact that the ghost he'd known for more than thirty years apparently did have a name, was not exactly sure to which potential the Headmaster was referring. A Slytherin never admitted he didn't know something, however, and he was accustomed to the Headmaster's cryptic observations, so he settled for a bland comment.

"Miss Granger has always been an individual of surprising talents," he hedged.

The Bloody Baron was, unfortunately, also a Slytherin, and knew a bluff when he heard one. "Ghosts like myself have only one measure of power, my boy," he proclaimed in glum voice, "and that's how well we influence our surroundings. Granger's gaining fast for a spirit who's only been dis-incorporated for such a short time."

"Miss Granger was able to force Peeves to accept her version of reality," Dumbledore clarified. "Peeves has been a poltergeist in this castle for more than a century, and he should have easily passed through the tabletop and escaped. Her willpower, not his, held supremacy during their little spat, and thus it was solid while she took him to task." The wrinkles around his faded blue eyes creased even deeper as he finished his understatement with a merry wink.

"I see," Severus admitted carefully. "And is this a cause for alarm?"

"For celebration," Albus corrected him cheerfully. "It seems we have another ghost in the castle who is capable of making Peeves behave."

"And one he'll respect," the Baron said, disgusted. "I never thought a good thrashing would be so effective."

"Gryffindors have no appreciation for subtlety," Severus sniffed.

The Headmaster smiled at this blatant dig and quickly replied, "Subtlety is all well and good, Severus, but now and then a jolly good thrashing makes a lesson stick better."

&&&&&

In the week following her battle with Peeves, Hermione was aware of the Baron observing her, surreptitiously keeping tabs on her comings and goings within the castle. He dropped by the potions laboratory several times, theoretically making sure that they were no longer bothered by the poltergeist. Hermione knew this was humbug, because Peeves had beat a hasty retreat every time he'd seen her coming, going so far as to dive through the walls in an attempt to avoid her. When she left the castle to gather dew off the mistletoe under the new moon for one of Snape's odder experiments, she was 'kept company' by the head ghost, and when she finished a late-night tutoring session with an insomniac third-year Hufflepuff reviewing for a transfiguration test the next day, she caught sight of the swashbuckler as she helped the child avoid Filch on his way back to his dorm.

So, it wasn't much of a surprise when the Baron intercepted her on the way to the dungeons one night. What was surprising was his almost reluctant manner as he swept off his wide-brimmed hat and bowed to her, just as he did to the Gray Lady.

"I wonder if I might have a word with you, Miss Hermione," he asked.

"Of course," she agreed, slightly wary.

"It's a rather delicate situation… regarding my Head of House."

"What about Professor Snape?"

"You've been spending quite a lot of time with him."

"I'm helping him – with his research, and with the grading. The other professors have assistance from their senior students, but he does not."

The Baron did not respond to that immediately, but his blood—stained fingers worked their way along the edge of the brim, causing the fluffy feathers on his hat wafted gently. "I'm wondering, is that entirely wise? I really don't think you should spend so much time with the Live ones. It won't do, Hermione."

"Are you forbidding me to help …"

"No, my dear, you misunderstand me. I'm merely concerned for you."

"Whatever for?"

"It's just – I don't think you should be getting attached to him, Miss Hermione. I wouldn't want you getting your heart broken."

"What?" Her first instinct was to laugh, but for some reason laughter would not come. The Baron gave her a knowing look, sympathetic but one that allowed no room for denial.

"You know what I'm talking about, lass. Severus Snape is a fine Head of House, and all I could ask for in a Slytherin. But he is human. Will it break your heart to love him now, only to lose him? He will die, sooner or later."

Hermione looked down at her hands, unable to refute the Baron's assumptions. Being a ghost had liberated her from the burden of hormones, but she was still essentially a woman. And while she had not considered her interactions with the dour Potions Master as a relationship, there was no doubt that he had somehow the most important person, living or dead, in her afterlife. She could not envision a time when he would not be there, making his sharp comments and pointed rejoinders.

"I don't suppose there's much chance he'll become like us?" she asked at last.

The Baron shook his head. "No, Hermione. Of all the men I've ever known, Severus Snape is not likely to become a ghost. He may have a tortured soul, but he's weary of this life. He'll be more glad than most to lay down that burden."

He was right, and she knew it; but even knowing it would eventually mean a great deal of pain, she could not bear the idea of stopping her interaction with Severus Snape.

When she voiced that thought, the Baron only sighed. "I guessed not. I left it too long, thinking Severus would eventually run you off. The Gray Lady told me I was wrong, and so I was."

He donned his elaborate hat once more, then gave her a respectful nod. "Care for him if you must, my dear. Love him, if you must. But don't be losing your heart to him."

"I'll try," she whispered. "I'm rather afraid it may be too late."

&&&&&

Still mindful of the Baron's talk, Hermione arrived at the potions laboratory at the appointed time a few evenings later only to find the place deserted. A hastily scribbled note in Snape's distinctive scrawl told her to begin without him as he had been called out on an errand for the Headmaster. That alone told her it was Order business; if he had been summoned by the Dark Lord the note would have simply said he'd gone out.

The few tasks she needed to accomplish were long finished by the time Severus Snape returned to his quarters that night. His normal commanding stride was absent as he walked through the classroom where Hermione loitered; instead his entire manner was subdued and he did not acknowledge Hermione's greeting beyond raising one hand in a warding gesture.

She followed him into his quarters, not entirely sure of her welcome. He neither greeted her nor ordered her out, but made his way towards the shelf where his little-used liquor supplies were stored. The quiet clink of crystal and liquid burble of amber were the only sounds in the room.

"Is everything all right?" she asked.

Rather than comment on inane questions, Severus uttered one word. "No."

The heavy square stopper went back in the brandy decanter with a chink. With the same deliberation, he lifted the squat tumbler and drained nearly half of the contents.

"You shouldn't be drinking like that," Hermione told him.

She was half-tempted to scold, to fall into the nanny role that so often irritated him, but her instinct told her that now was not the time to use any cardboard cliches to get a reaction. Whatever was wrong, and it was quite obvious something was desperately wrong, would not be brought to light by taking refuge in the shorthand personas they sometimes used with each other.

"Yes, I should be," he answered at length.

Moving forward until she was sure she was within his line of sight, Hermione kept her voice gentle. "Has something happened?"

"Your precious Harry and his sidekick are fine. They weren't even there."

"I'm not worried about Harry and Ron. I'm worried about you."

He examining the remaining liquor in his glass before consuming it with a quick toss of his wrist and carefully put the crystal tumbler down. His long fingers toyed with the rim, then moved on, flitting across book spines and shelf edges as he meandered around the room, touching things without really seeing them. Just as Hermione gave up thinking he would answer, he began talking.

"We – Moody and Tonks and I – went to raid a shop just outside Wizarding London tonight. It's a low-rent place, importing Muggle trinkets to sell off pushcarts and such. We'd heard the owner was also shipping in what he thought were drugs. Actually, he was getting in shipments of Ki-ren horns and hoofs."

"Those are endangered species," she noted, all the while watching his restless movement around the room.

"But very useful in Dark Arts. The Dark Lord had recently ordered me to research some potions using those, so we thought the rumor was quite possibly true. And since it didn't come from me, it should have been safe to raid the place."

Hermione nodded in understanding – if the importer were a Muggle, it was highly unlikely he was dealing directly with any Pure Blood wizards in Voldemort's plans. The man was most likely being used by Death Eaters who used Muggle means to smuggle proscribed items past the Ministry.

"What went wrong?" she asked softly, envisioning the worst. Tonks dead, or Mad-Eye Moody.

"The intended recipient – a known Death Eater – came to get his shipment. He caught Tonks going through his package and hit her with a Crucio. Then he saw me."

"Did you recognize him?"

Severus' eyes closed, and it was a moment before he could speak. "Of course I did. He was Lucius Malfoy."

The sense of foreboding grew in Hermione, but she could not stop the words any more than she could come back to life. "And then?"

"He hesitated," Severus responded, his deep voice nearly cracking. "I did not. I hit him with an Expelliarmus and Stupefy." Dark eyes opened once more, luminous with unshed tears and staring deep into a darkness Hermione had no hope of penetrating. "I didn't know - - I didn't realize Lucius where was standing. He fell – onto a display of cheap glass vases.

"We couldn't save him. He bled to death."

The room was silent, save the faint, uneven sound of Severus breathing. At last, Hermione summoned her courage.

"I'm sorry, Severus."

"Why would you be sorry?" he asked in a voice that attempted to be reasonable. Only the slightest quaver in certain vowels gave away his emotional turmoil, and Hermione longed to wrap her arms around him, to comfort him. "Lucius Malfoy hated you even more than his son did."

"I'm sorry your friend is dead."

"He was my friend," Severus repeated hollowly. "The first person who ever treated me as though I were something of value rather than an imposition for simply existing. I loved him like a brother even when I knew he was seducing me to the Dark Lord's service, and I thanked him for it. I've hated him as much as ever loved him, and now he's dead."

Moving like an old man, Severus sat in one of the chairs before the cold fireplace. A heavy silence fell in the room, and after a moment Hermione drifted to the other, wishing she could provide more than her mere presence for comfort. When Severus began speaking again, his voice was more controlled, but still had a lost quality that tore at her.

"I was ripe for the picking when Lucius brought me to Voldemort," he told her absently. "My family was dead, disgraced and bankrupt. An appeal to my pride and arrogance, a vague promise to return my family honor and fortune to the prominence it once had, and I was one of his entirely."

"You were young," Hermione ventured. "Young men are known to be… impulsive."

"Foolish, you mean. Your friend Potter is a classic example – always leaping into the flames without any regard for his safety. Never realizing how his actions may affect the rest of his life, should he be so fortunate to have one. He never gives a single thought to the price he might pay for his recklessness."

Severus peered up, looking at Hermione directly for the first time. "I envy you sometimes, Hermione Granger. You're finished with life. No responsibilities, no one demanding anything from you. No…outstanding debts…of any kind."

His black eyes stared at her, and Hermione did her best to radiate calm sympathy even though his words tore at her heart. It was as the Baron had said – Severus Snape considered his life to be a burden beyond bearing, and knew that he would fling himself headlong into the oblivion of death and whatever waited beyond rather than chose to stay for any reason. She chose her next words with care, doubting they would have any effect but hoping they would.

"I may not be alive, Professor, but I still have responsibilities, even if they're only to myself. A wise man once said that we have only the time we're given, and we have to make the best use of that time while we can. I didn't get a chance to make use of my life, so I do what I can with my afterlife. You were right, you know. My own death meant very little in the grand scheme of things. But my death meant something to my friends. Lucius Malfoy's death is significant to you, and no one can tell you that it shouldn't be."

And your death would mean something to me, she longed to add, but did not voice aloud. He continued to stare at her, the crease between his eyebrows deepening as he considered her words, but his fathomless eyes continued to hold hers for endless moments. The intense atmosphere between them was turning awkward, and she seized upon the first thought that entered her head. Clearing her throat unnecessarily, she nodded towards the brandy.

"Will you need a detoxifying potion?" she asked.

"What? No, I don't think so," he answered, startled out of whatever reverie he'd been in. "I've been careful of late, so I should be fine." He rubbed his hands over the arms of the chair, his restlessness returning.

"I should go to bed," he added, frowning. "It's been… a long evening."

"Good night, then," Hermione told him.

"Good night," he answered, turning away. For a moment she thought he might say something else, but he went into his bedroom and closed the door.

Hours passed, and Hermione silently paced the floor. Severus had not taken a Dreamless Sleep, not that she had expected him to, but neither had she heard the tell-tale sounds of his nightmares. She guessed he was likely lying awake, staring at the bed-curtains.

It was not until she could feel the dawn in her bones that she heard the light snores coming from the bedroom. Barely daring to hope, she phased into the room and hovered over the sleeping Potions Master. A slight smile appeared on his face, replaced almost immediately by a frown.

Dreading the inevitable, but knowing it would happen, sooner or later, Hermione sank further over the man sprawled on his side in the bed and allowed herself to fall into the reality of his dream. When she opened her eyes, she stood in a shady copse of trees that nearly obscured a nearby lake. Hermione could not tell if this were an actual location Severus remembered, or perhaps merely a representation of a bucolic, youthful spot in the woods. Ahead of her, she could just make out the forms of Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape.

The two were walking side by side beneath the spreading canopy of leaves, both young and exuding the pure masculine beauty of young men in their early twenties. One was elegant and handsome as an angel, the type some would whisper about unless they were observant enough to see exactly how predatory he really was. The other had more classic features, immortalized on a thousands statues of commanding Roman men both senators and generals.

As they walked, Lucius began to draw ahead of Snape, occasionally walking backwards as he cajoled his friend. Despite her efforts to get closer, flitting between the trees like a wood nymph, Hermione could not catch but fragments of their conversation. The breeze blew back single words and short phrases, along with the deep laughter as they bantered back and forth. So intent was she on catching up to them, Hermione barely noticed as the gaps between the trees became wider, the leaves and moss on the ground giving way to sharp rocks, dank ground and sludge. Only when the graceful trees turned into macabre, twisted dark growth did she realize they had moved from the idyllic landscape to a nightmare.

Abruptly she plunged into a small clearing, just in time to see Lucius Malfoy, still several yards ahead of Severus, stumble into a quagmire. His beautiful long blond hair caught in the black leaves and duckweed on the surface of the dirty, swirling water as he struggled, but the superior expression never left his face.

Even as Severus shouted and threw himself down on the mud and muck, reaching desperately for his friend, Lucius was dragged down further, his hair darkening. He never reached back, but the accusation in his blue eyes was evident until he went under the surface of the water, and the floating vegetation covered him over completely.

Severus clawed at the water and plunged on arm down into the depths, screaming Lucius' name. He did not seem to notice Hermione as she knelt behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, but continued to thrash in the water, sending up dank waves of it without finding anything. Eventually, his movements slowed, and then stilled, one arm still trailing in the water, his own hair damp as he panted for breath.

"Lucius," he croaked desolately.

"He's gone, Severus," Hermione told him softly. "I'm so sorry." She rubbed his heaving back until he calmed, and with a groan rolled over, looking up at her. His sharp features were drawn and hopeless.

"He was my friend," Severus protested quietly, sounding almost like a child who did not understand why his toy had been stolen.

"I know. I know he was your friend."

"The others… Tonks and Moody. They wanted me to go with them. To celebrate. That he's dead. They were glad he's dead."

Brushing his damp hair away from his face, Hermione cursed the thoughtlessness, the callousness of the other two and stalled until she could think of something more appropriate to say. "They didn't remember him like you did, Severus," she told him finally. "No matter what they said or thought about Lucius, you knew him as a friend, And you're allowed to mourn for him, no matter what."

His face twisted, but was quickly buried against her stomach as he arms went around her like steel bands. He clung tightly to her while his shoulders shook, and Hermione held him just as fiercely. While he would likely not remember this dream any more than he had his previous ones, what comfort she could not give in reality she was determined to give his subconscious.

"They weren't wrong, though," Severus argued against Hermione's belly a long time later. "He was bad."

"Maybe he was," she agreed. "But you'll always have the memories of him. Memories can't hurt you."

"Sometimes they can," he murmured, almost to himself.

"Not the good ones."

That got a wordless, noncommittal sound from him, but his grip finally loosened enough to let him look up at her. At least, mostly at her. His gaze kept falling in the middle ground, somewhere around the level of the neckline of her robes.

"Are you real?" he asked suddenly.

"I'm as real as you need me to be," she told him, both curious and apprehensive as to what he might have meant by that question. "For as long as you need me to be."

Her response only got a smirk from Severus, a silly, exhausted, that's-leaving-yourself-wide-open smirk, before he closed his eyes and burrowed deeper into her embrace, leaving sexual innuendo aside in favor of her comfort.


	10. Chapter 10

1In the weeks following Lucius Malfoy's death, Hermione noticed a subtle change in Severus Snape. There was nothing too obvious; he remained just as prickly, and the sarcasm still poured effortlessly from him at the least provocation. The remarks seemed slightly off center, however, as though they were prompted by reflex rather than real venom. He taught his classes as usual, giving Hermione plenty of the lower class homework to grade, but the usual backlash of criticism was missing when she failed to mark as strictly as he would have done. And during the long evenings while they pored over the reassembled translation text and the salvaged fragments of their original parchment, he seemed slightly distracted, preoccupied by thoughts he did not share with her. The more she observed, the more Hermione saw glimpses of a quiet core of pain within him, gingerly held close like an injured limb. It was an injury that would heal, eventually, but would always twinge at odd moments and ache when the weather was vile.

"Perhaps the man was exiled to South America," Hermione suggested, hoping to drag her partner's attention back to the papers lying strewn across the work table. "Maybe he was using his potions abilities to earn a living."

"Hmm," was the response she finally received, several moments later than she would have expected. "We'll probably never know. The only legacy our unknown friend here has left is this mass of scribbles." He flipped through the pages, looking for the place he'd lost when his attention wandered.

Before he found it, however, he was interrupted by a knock at the door to his private office. It was a moment before Hermione even realized where the sound was coming from; the knock was magically amplified from the main corridor's entry to Severus' office. Very few students ever braved the Potion Master's wrath in the late evening. Especially considering it was a Saturday night, and well past curfew.

One black eyebrow went up, met by Hermione's slight shrug, but Severus tossed his quill down and reached for his frock coat, hung from a nearby cauldron hook. He quickly pulled it on over his usual working clothes; a black vest over a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Buttoned up with the ease of long practice, the Potion Master's persona was fully in place as he strode down the hall towards his office.

He held the camouflaged door open in reflexive courtesy as Hermione wafted through after him, then closed it. Only then did he seem to notice that she'd followed. When he raised one hand in a cautious gesture, Hermione complied and vanished from sight. Severus tugged at the wrists of his jacket once more, settling the rucked-up shirt sleeve within, before answering the knock as it was repeated.

Whatever scathing comment intended for obstreperous students died on his lips the moment he recognized the person on the other side of the door. "Draco?"

"Uncle Severus," Draco replied, entering the office with a confident step. "How have you been?" For a young man whose father had just died a rather surprising and bloody death, Draco seemed very composed and at ease.

Momentarily flummoxed by both the younger man's sudden appearance and manner, Severus shut the door behind his guest rather than respond. Silently remaining in her corner of the room, Hermione was equally surprised and not a little suspicious. Enough people with foul intentions had come onto the castle grounds in the past few years that she no longer trusted the security wards around the school to notify the Headmaster when unannounced or unplanned visitors were present. Even if Dumbledore had been notified, things could turn ugly in a very short span of time. Should Draco turn out to be hostile towards his former Head of House, Hermione could streak through the castle within moments to summon help. And she didn't care if she gave Minerva McGonagall apoplexy or not.

"I am as I have always been, Draco," Severus answered. "What brings you here?"

"Business in Hogsmeade. It went a bit longer than expected, but I could hardly come all this way without dropping in to see my godfather. Father did raise me with some manners, after all."

"Yes, of course." The comment on manners registered a moment later, and Severus collected his, for once, wandering wits. "Why don't we move this to my quarters," he suggested, indicating the archway on the far side of his office.

Draco greeted this with a thin smile and a slight bow, a courtly gesture Hermione had seen younger Pureblood wizards use towards older wizards before. Severus returned the gesture with a slight nod and led the way towards his rooms, utilizing the common route through a secondary corridor rather than the secret passageway that led through his workroom. Draco followed him with a swirl of his traveling cloak, and Hermione trailed after them both, determined not to leave Severus alone with Draco.

The boy she knew from school had grown into a man who bore an eerie resemblance to his own father; his blond hair had grown out and swept down to the collar of his dark robes, which were a midnight blue so dark they could be taken for black. Beneath he wore a vest embroidered with silver dragons that formed long points over blue pin-striped trousers; he was the embodiment of a young lord.

His demeanor, however, did not quite match his appearance or come close to the effortless grace of Lucius Malfoy. Once inside Severus' rather neglected outer room, he moved about restlessly rather than sit in the chair his host had offered.

"You're here on business?" Severus asked as he poured a measure of firewhiskey from the bottles on his sideboard.

"Hogsmeade," Draco replied carelessly as he took the crystal tumbler from his godfather. "With Father gone, there are piles of work that needs done – details that need attention." He barely glanced at his drink before tossing it back with practiced ease; a bit too practiced, from what Hermione could see. She kept her distance from the live ones in the room, not wanting her chilly aura to announce her presence, but even from across the room she could see Draco's eyes were bloodshot and underlined by heavy circles. A sloppy glamour had been applied several hours ago, but was quickly losing its effectiveness.

"You've heard about Father's death, of course," he commented casually as he drifted around the sitting room, peering at the bookshelves and looking away from his reflection in the glass-fronted cupboard. When he held out his tumbler, Severus filled it again.

"Yes. I was at the funeral," Severus answered, taking a seat in his favorite chair. "I spoke to you, remember?"

Draco obviously did not remember; he shrugged one shoulder as he draped himself into the opposite chair. The level of whiskey in his glass went down at an alarming rate as he chatted about the shambles of his estate and the endless details of running the Malfoy fortune. According to his near-monologue, Draco had had to grapple with multiple levels of murky legalities – Lucius had been a fugitive from the Ministry but had never formally been convicted of any crime - - but his death had conveniently removed those bureaucratic tangles. Added to the comments regarding their mutual acquaintances and other small talk, his conversation was verging on the banal.

A first year Hufflepuff might have been fooled by the performance, but Snape had been overseeing Slytherins for decades; Hermione could tell he was rapidly loosing patience with his guest. Even she was beginning to tire of the travesty that Draco Malfoy had become. The normal veneer of sneering superiority had been stripped from him like a coat of bad wax and all that remained was a young man desperately clinging to the shreds of his life and quite possibly his sanity.

"Draco," Severus interrupted quietly. "Are you here to ask me to sponsor you in the service of the Dark Lord?"

The inane chatter ceased. Draco's mouth thinned into a white line and he nodded.

The next question was arctic in its coldness. "Why?"

"Why?" Draco repeated in disbelief. "Because I want to join, of course! For years, Father has kept me from taking the mark, always using me as his go-between for his dealings. Always keeping me out of the true service to Lord – Lord- our Dark Lord." Even with two generous measures of whiskey in him, Draco could not quite bring himself to say 'Voldemort.'

His fair skin flushed with the drink and his own outrage, the younger man's blue eyes flared, but he still looked miserable. "Father always made me stay out of things. Kept me out of things. Said I was supposed to maintain believable…something."

"The term is 'plausible deniability, but you misunderstand my question. Why do you want to join the Death Eaters – support the Dark Lord, and more than likely die in an ignoble fashion similar to your father?"

"My father died for what he believed in!" Draco objected.

"Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors die for what they believe in," Severus told him in a cutting voice. "Your father died because he pulled a wand on some Aurors in the middle of a cheap warehouse."

Draco flinched at this, but Severus did not relent. "The question becomes this, then. What do you believe in, Draco? Are you willing to die in the service of a wizard who used your father like an errand boy? Throw your life away in some stupid, futile manner while carrying out the whims of a wizard who's not quite sane? You saw what was left of Theodore Nott when the Aurors caught him tormenting the Thomas family. Don't think that you're any smarter than he was, because Nott was a clever little bastard. Follow the Dark Lord and you will likely end up the same as he."

Draco made a noise of protest, but Severus overrode him, his normally velvet voice brutal.

"Are you, a pure blood of the highest order, willing to kneel in the mud to a half-blood wizard and call him Master? To take orders without question, do whatever you're told, and be used like a Knockturn Alley whore without getting paid for it? And I do mean that literally, Draco; you're an attractive young man and you'll be forced to accept the attentions of older, higher-ranked Death Eaters. Dolohov in particular is known for working his way through the new recruits, and he loves the sound of a good scream. Are you sure this is what you want?"

With each hammering question, Draco had slid down further in his chair. When the onslaught of questions ceased, the younger man muttered something.

"What's that?"

"I don't know!" he burst out.

Giving his godson a long look, Severus carefully placed his drink on the worn flagstone floor before rising and retrieving the bottle of whiskey from the sideboard. With his free hand he dragged his vacated chair closer to its mate until he was directly opposite Draco. Still without speaking, he pulled the empty cocktail glass from Draco's loose grasp, refilled it, and pressed it back into his hands.

Reclaiming his own drink, Severus took it into his loose fingers as he settled into his chair once more and stared down at the crystal facets as though they might hold some answers. His next comments were addressed towards the whiskey rather than the young man before him, his deep voice rising from behind the curtain of dark hair across his face.

"I'll tell you what I do know, Draco. Harry Potter -- however blundering, hard-headed, and stupid he may be -- has the power to defeat the Dark Lord. He's proven it time and again; there's even a bloody prophesy about it. All the players in this sordid little fiasco know it, especially the Dark Lord. Potter believes in this war. So, in fact, does the Headmaster. And they believe they're going to win."

"What do you believe?" Draco asked in a hollow voice.

"I've been here before, Draco. I was at the Dark Lord's side, until the night he went to Godric's Hollow and set himself against the Potters. And I can see it all coming full circle, with the outcome as sure as the sun rises and sets."

"What are you saying, then? That I should turn my back on everything my father held sacred?"

"What I'm saying," Severus began carefully, "is that we Slytherins have honor, but we are also realists. I do not believe that Voldemort will succeed in his bid to take over the wizarding world. Should he actually succeed and overwhelm Dumbledore's Order and the Ministry, it will only be a matter of time before the other wizarding enclaves around the world combine forces as a matter of their own self interest and move against him.

"You are Slytherin, Mr. Malfoy. Be realistic. Throwing you life away on some grand, futile gesture is not a worthy end for a Slytherin."

Although a heavy frown still marred his handsome features, Draco bowed his head in acquiescence. He drained his whiskey once more, then held it out for a refill. Severus obligingly filled. They were silent for some time, until Severus finished his drink. He grimaced and put one hand over his right side, as if he felt a twinge, but did not go in search of his potion.

"You have the money, the birth, and the connections to become a major player in the aftermath of these wars," Severus pointed out in a quiet voice. "It would be prudent to cultivate some of your mother's friends; her social circle includes many Ministry wives. You can escort her to her social functions and drop a word here and there about your father's sad end to a sad life. It won't take long for them to start considering you as something other than your father's son. Your father played that same game for decades; you should be able to pull if off convincingly."

"Lord Volde – the Dark Lord, he won't be pleased. Scrimgeour as much as told me I was expected to join."

"You would be, but I will mention to the Dark Lord that I've a plan to use you in the public eye. We'll groom you to inveigle your way amongst the Ministry supporters, where you'll learn all their secrets from gossipy wives." Severus' lip curled in self-deprecating humor. "Make a habit of inviting your impoverished godfather for dinner now and then; I'll pick up the useless gossip from you and you can hear all the latest stories of ineptitude amongst the Dark Lord's followers."

Draco nodded thoughtfully. "I could do that. Mother hasn't really taken Father's death well. She could use getting out more."

"Excellent notion. You might also consider courting a few young ladies; the thought of trying to get you married might bring her out of her depression."

Draco made a face, but for the first time the corner of his mouth twitched in humor. "She'll be all over the social registry with a fine-toothed comb. Merlin help me if she starts in with Pansy Parkinson again."

Severus shuddered delicately. "If that happens, it might be wise to expand your selection. There are a number of young ladies who've come through Hogwarts in the last few years who would be excellent choices. Their pedigrees are not up to Pansy's, to be sure, but that would be in keeping with your new image."

A shoulder shifted. "I suppose I could date a few half-bloods. I might even bring myself to date a Mudbl… a Muggleborn witch. That would show the old cats."

"It couldn't hurt," Severus allowed. "But only if she were a truly exceptional witch, of course."

A snort of laughter greeted this. "Too bad Hermione Granger isn't around any more. She was certainly a cut above." A thoughtful frown creased his brow, making the wave of blonde hair shift; he tossed is aside impatiently. "Wait, I forgot. Granger's still here, isn't she? Her ghost, at least?"

"I'm sure she's around here somewhere," Severus answered, his ebony eyes sliding over towards the corner Hermione often occupied during their evening conversations. "But you'd be hard pressed to find a witch, pureblood or Muggle-born, that was her equal."

He raised his glass in a silent toast, not sure if she were invisibly eavesdropping as he suspected she might be. It was directed towards the wrong corner, but Hermione was still touched by the compliment. She was even more touched when Draco copied the movement, although his wry expression lacked his godfather's seriousness. "Crabbe and Goyle would go starkers if they heard you say that," he observed.

"Flobberworms have better sense than those two imbeciles. Which brings me to another thought. You still maintain some influence over those two idiots, and I think your leadership among Slytherin House during your school years may give you some influence among your peers. If you wish to save some of your more foolish friends, you might gradually enlighten them to the futility of following the Dark Lord.

"But above all else, Draco, do be careful. Very careful. If you cannot sway them with a few well-placed words, neither agree nor disagree with them. Give them money if you must; but allow no one to bring the Dark Lord's business to Malfoy Manor. You must be absolutely spotless when the purges come and believe me, the Ministry will be merciless when they feel free at last to punish the Dark Lord's followers."

"What about you?" Surprisingly sober, Draco sat up and stared at his godfather. "What are you going to do?"

"Me?" Severus peered into his empty glass, swirling the viscous dribble in the bottom. "I set myself on this road when I was younger than you are now, Draco. That is a decision I will stand by, no matter what the cost. And it will cost, in the end. I've little hope of surviving the Dark Lord's downfall."

Draco had no response to that; indeed, he looked as if he'd been hit by a bludger he wasn't expecting. It was a rather more humble man who made his excuses a few minutes later, apologizing for imposing so late in the evening. He took his leave with a grateful handshake, telling Severus that he was invited for dinner the following week.

After he'd gone, Severus turned to the empty room and called out softly. "Miss Granger. Hermione? Are you here?"

From the opposite side of the room, Hermione materialized and gave a half-hearted wave. "Right here."

He gave her a long look. "You heard everything, then?"

"Yes."

His level gaze was unusually penetrating, and without thinking she obeyed a compulsion to draw closer to him.

"I would ask something of you," he stated, and with a mental shake Hermione realized Severus had attempted to use his Legilimency skills on her. That magic was useless, but the fact that he'd even attempted was a virtual signboard to his anxiety.

"You don't want Dumbledore to know about Draco," she guessed.

Severus appeared relieved. "No. The last thing I would wish for my godson is that he be set on the same disastrous course I have taken. The Headmaster… I know he would seek to bring Draco in under his…sheltering wing." Hermione was sure Severus had been thinking of 'stifling' rather than 'sheltering.'

"I won't say anything," Hermione assured him. If nothing else, being a ghost had taught her to watch and observe rather than directly attempting to influence anyone. She had learned, after much experience, that most people were difficult to dissuade from dangerous behavior when they believed in what they were doing. She had her own doubts about Draco's trustworthiness, and feared that Severus may have endangered himself by being so candid with the younger man, but it was his choice to make just as it was his choice not to inform the Headmaster of Draco's lack of loyalty to his father's cause. "Besides, I don't think Draco would deal well with the Professor's management style."

This comment elicited a snort from the Potions Master. "No, the Headmaster would drive Draco to drink even more than he does now."

A flick of his wand sent the glasses back to the sideboard along with the decanter of whiskey. The house elves would deal with them later. As he did so, Hermione made herself useful by pushing his chair back to its usual place.

"Do you think Draco will be able to stay clear of Voldemort's attention?" she asked.

"I believe so. If anything can come of Lucius' death – I doubt he would approve of his son's decision, but that's beside the point – I would hope that Draco will learn to think for himself before it's too late. That's a lesson that was very hard for me to grasp… but I for one am very relieved to know that he will not be taking the mask of a Death Eater."

"I'm glad," Hermione said vehemently. "I won't lie, I thought he was a pretentious wart in school – but I'm very glad he's not going to be a Death Eater."

"Your friends will be safer," Severus said with a faint sneer.

"I'm not worried about my friends, I'm glad for Draco's sake," she emphasized. "He asked me about death, once. I don't think he needs to learn any more about it first-hand. And we both know that's exactly what would happen if he tried to go up against Harry, or Ron for that matter."

"Of course," Severus replied, mollified as he remembered to whom, exactly, he was speaking. "There's enough death in this world. And though I'm loath to admit it, you're right. He wouldn't survive a duel with any member of the Order."

&&&&&

"We're still missing something," Severus growled as he ran his fingers through his hair, uncharacteristically disordering it. A chuff of derisive scorn was the only answer, but it was a sign of his own exasperation that he did not take offense at the sound.

Days and even weeks had passed with little more progress on the Phoenix Tears potion than the night they'd made their breakthrough with the golden cauldron. No matter what substitutions or ratio changes they made to the components, the resulting blend was no better than a second-rate healing potion available at any corner apothecary in Diagon Alley. With each unproductive evening, Hermione felt their search was becoming more and more a pipe dream; a way to keep themselves occupied while wasting a great deal of money on ingredients that could have been better used elsewhere.

Seated on one of the high stools behind his work table, Severus no longer even bothered with his formal robes or the heavy frock coat he normally wore. Moments after retreating to his private lab each night, he would shed his outer layers down to his white shirt and black vest. Now and then he would even remove his boots, padding across the flagstones in his stocking feet.

Hermione also showed signs of their frustration; her long curls were escaping their conjured clip and floated in gray tendrils around her face like slender anemones drifting with the tide of her movements. Not that she'd moved much lately – she currently floated on a level with Severus' workbench as she had for the last several hours. Flat on her back, her feet crossed neatly at the ankles and arms folded across her waist, she listened with half an ear as Severus read out sections of the translation.

In between discussions – she did not think they quite qualified as arguments – Hermione mulled over the concept that she just might have formed an attachment to Severus Snape. An unnatural attachment, some would call it, considering she was a ghost and he was alive. However, there was no denying that the brilliant, bad-tempered, talented man seated on the other side of the table was the closest thing to a soul mate she could imagine. And despite the questionable disposition of her own soul, she knew she would give it up gladly to spend the rest of her existence exactly as they did now.

She was brought back from her mental wanderings as Severus declaimed another line of Latin. In his deep, rolling baritone voice it sounded impressive until Hermione mentally translated it.

"I really don't think I need to know the details of his dyspepsia, Professor. Honestly, this seems like he wrote down every stray thought he had. It's like sifting through an overfull pensive."

"It was your idea to start over at the beginning," he reminded her.

"Yes, but I doubt that this section anything to do with the potion. He specifically said just a bit ago he had eaten jugged hare for dinner. That would give anyone a belly-ache."

"Agreed." With a fresh daub of ink, Snape crossed that particular phrase off his copied parchment.

They were unable to agree on the meaning of several lines regarding the zodiac, falling stars, or mythical beasts, and moved on to a comment on the geometry of beehives.

"Would honey have any effect on the potion?" Hermione asked.

"It might taste better," Severus admitted. "Honey has some antibacterial properties, but in a solution allegedly as powerful and instantaneous as the Phoenix Tears potion, it shouldn't make any difference."

"Hmm. Read that line on falling stars again. Maybe it's a clue about a specific breed of bees."

"Fiery serpent falling from the heart of heaven," he read aloud.

"Fire," she mused. "Fiery heart. Heat." She sat up abruptly, her robes drifting around her in uneasy eddies. "Hang on. You said this cauldron was goblin-made, right? Just how many goblins do you think were running around South America five hundred years ago?"

"That would be none, Miss Granger," Severus answered, one hand picked at the nib of his pen, a bad habit Hermione often despaired of as it left his fingertips black and spattered ink on the parchment.

"Exactly. So our unknown dabbler here would have been using ordinary, Muggle-crafted gold. It's a sure bet it was pure gold at that, so a lot softer than ours. So how hot can gold get? Before it melts, that is?"

"Just under two thousand Fahrenheit, as I recall, though I'd imagine it loses any structural integrity long before then."

"And even a wood fire can get close to that, so he couldn't possibly have put it over a fire like we have." Severus nodded, agreeing with her reasoning so far though he had no idea where her reasoning was leading. "So - if our friend didn't have a goblin-made cauldron, how did he heat up his potion?"

Snape leaned back in his chair, breathing deeply through his nose as he thought. "He would have heated something else and dropped it into the cauldron. It's a common method for heating a liquid in a vessel not meant to be put over flames."

"Something like a meteorite, maybe?"

Severus blinked at her, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. "A what?"

"A meteorite, Professor. A falling star, trailing fire through the skies."

As was their habit when working together, Severus immediately began to worry the problem from the opposite direction. "Why not anything iron?"

"If the heat method and type of iron didn't matter, this mess would have worked already. We've been stirring it with every kind of ladle." Her brow furrowed in thought, Hermione floated, legs crossed, in a cloud of ghostly robes. "I do remember reading somewhere that a meteor falling through the atmosphere is subjected to so much heat that it forms a crystalline structure inside."

"The use of crystals is a minor but important part of alchemy," Severus added. He sat up abruptly. "Wait a minute. There's a section of the manuscript that goes on and on about finding sweet gum wood to burn."

"Yes – but I thought you decided it didn't matter what kind of heat source we used."

"I did, but we presupposed the idea that the pot would be heated up. If we put the meteor in the flames, it would coat the meteor with trace elements from the wood."

"Balsam from sweet gum was used by the Aztecs as a medicine," Hermione added, her gray eyes glowing with the satisfaction of a puzzle coming together at last. Across the desk, Severus' black eyes snapped with the same excitement.

"Exactly. So, we require a supply of sweet gum wood and a meteorite. How big, do you think?"

Hermione shrugged. "Bigger than your fist, small enough to fit in the pot," she answered practically, although she was nearly buzzing with excitement. "I'll fetch your raven – you make out the order."

"It's late, Hermione," he reminded her, even as he searched for fresh parchment. "I'll write out the orders and send it in the morning."

She made a noise in the back of her throat in frustration, but agreed. "All right. And you should go to bed directly afterwards. I'll clear this mess up."

"Very well. Thank you," he added absently as the quill scratched across the parchment. "I hardly wish to give you another reason to fuss at me."

"Good. You're too old to tuck into bed, but I'm sure the Headmaster would do it for me if I asked nicely."

Severus attempted to ignore her, although he shuddered slightly.

"Done," he announced a few minutes later. "I'll send these in the morning, and tomorrow night we can finish creating the base for the third years' classes. It will likely be a few days before these are delivered, and I want to use that time to its best advantage."

All right," Hermione agreed, carefully replacing the few books back on their shelves and returning those items they'd used that evening to their proper places. "Sleep well, Professor. Pleasant dreams." Only after the words had left her mouth did she realize what she'd said. Pure shock and fear held her immobilized until she heard Severus make a disparaging tsk.

"Really, Nanny Granger. That is pushing things a bit far. Next you'll be bringing me a glass of warm milk."

Relief flooded her as Severus continued to cap his inkwell and seal the letters, completely oblivious to her anxiety. He obviously did not attach any significance to her comments. If he remembered any of his dreams, he did not associate her with those fragmentary images.

Not trusting her own mouth, Hermione kept silent while the man pottered about his lab, picking up his belongings and taking his leave with an absent-minded 'good evening.' Once he'd left, she slumped over in relief and shook her head. 'What kind of an idiot are you?' she muttered to herself. 'Do you want to get caught?'

Finished with the clearing up, Hermione left the darkened lab and her unanswered questions behind. The cool, serene alcove at the top of the staircases was dark and welcoming, but provided no more answers for her than the dungeon had. Peering out over the grounds of the castle, Hermione felt trapped for the first time since she'd awoken to her afterlife of a Hogwarts ghost. Her gaes, however, were not the boundaries of the locale she haunted, but the man who was oblivious to both her interference with his nightmares and the fact that her regard for him was not as one-dimensional as he assumed.

&&&&&

As it happened, Severus was far too optimistic in his estimations. Several weeks passed before the alchemist's supply could track down a meteorite; he paid the exorbitant price without a quibble. On the other hand, the order sent by international owl to Venezuela went unanswered. A quantity of balsam was bought from the local apothecary house, but at the last minute a delivery elf wearing a battered vaquero hat appeared with a shipment of sweet gum wood from the cloud forests of South America.

Hermione carefully prepared the ingredients one more time while Severus laid a fire by hand and lit it with a blast from his wand. The chunk of expensive, irregular iron went in the center of the fire as all the other bits went into the gold cauldron, installed on a cold, unlit burner stand. They waited together, not speaking, until the thinner edges of the meteorite began to glow with heat and the wood fire collapsed under the weight of the metal.

Hermione's nerves were humming by the time Severus lifted the hot meteorite from the coals with a pair of gold tongs and carried it to the cauldron. The Potions Master appeared serene, but the fine lines around his eyes bespoke his own tension. Hermione held her non-existent breath as the meteorite plunked into the soupy potion.

It sizzled madly as it sank into the depths, sending up a cloud of bubbles that further obscured the opaque solution. A rapid boil ensued almost immediately, and then a golden light began as a glimmer at the bottom of the cauldron.

The glimmer abruptly exploded into a blinding burst of colors, trailing fireflies and Catherine wheels through the room. This lasted for several long moments, and then almost as quickly as they began, the fireworks subsided, leaving the golden pot glowing from within. When Severus peered cautiously into the cauldron, nearly bumping heads with Hermione, the potion had become a clear iridescent swirl of colors with the meteorite lying in the bottom.

With the same golden tongs, he fished the meteorite out and laid it on one of the empty trays used earlier to hold ingredients. The rainbow liquid separated from the iron nugget and ran into the corner of the tray, leaving the meteorite a dry, shapeless blob, while the potion itself beaded like mercury and rolled merrily around the inner rim, practically inviting someone to poke it and see what happened.

Only the discipline of years allowed Severus to keep his hands to himself; instead, he reached for the much abused Nauga hyde synthesizer and slashed it once more. The Phoenix Tears, when he ladled on a small dollop, oozed immediately down the length of the cut until the wound was entirely coated. Nothing happened for a moment.

Just as Hermione opened her mouth to comment, the edges of the wound reached for each other like long parted lovers and knitted together into a seamless whole. The hyde defied any attempt to discover where the slash had been. In fact, the previous scars, ones that had resisted both potions and mending spells, gradually faded until the hyde was as soft and flawless as the finest glove or boot leather.

With reverent fingers, Severus stroked the solid hyde, but even his sensitive fingers were unable to find the scars of their previous experiments. He looked up to see Hermione tilting the tray from one side to the other, watching the iridescent droplets skate across the surface. A smile of absolute wonder lifted the corners of her gray lips.

While she was preoccupied, he reached for the ladle once more and stirred it through the thick liquid. And then, ignoring the training and every good habit that had been drilled into his head since he first lit a cauldron, he reached for the mug he'd been drinking tea from earlier.

"Don't you dare," Hermione ordered sharply. "We need to test it…make sure it's safe."

"It's right," he told her softly. "You know it. I know it. This is the moment a Potion Master lives for, Hermione. Even if you no longer draw a living breath, you're as competent as any Master I've ever worked with. And you know this is right."

Torn between the pleasure of his compliment and the fear of his testing an untried potion, Hermione paused. "All right, you can test it. Just wait a moment."

In a flash she swept over the table to the notebook where they'd recorded all their experimentations. She flipped to a fresh page, uncapped the ink, and carefully logged the results of their latest experiment. The mended nauga hyde was noted before she turned a critical eye on the Potions Master.

"Right then. You're about 65 kilos, I think?" That went down in the book, along with his current age and the fact that he suffered from advanced Braxdyce Syndrome. "Very well. Measure out a gill – in a clean beaker, if you please," she chided as he reached for the tea mug again.

That earned her another snort, but he obeyed, pouring a precise half-cup into the glass container. The fluid sparkled like a liquid rainbow in the glass as he sat down at the table opposite Hermione. With a slight salute towards her, he drained the glass. She noted the time and waited.

"Well?" she asked after the clock ticked over one minute.

"It's an odd sensation," he replied, his eyes focused on the far wall. "I feel hot. Like a volcano is about to erupt."

"You need to tell me these things," Hermione reminded him, her quill scratching in the quiet dungeon as she wrote. "Any light-headedness?"

"No. Just a pressure, here," and he put his hand over his right side where he'd often felt twinges after drinking or otherwise taxing his liver and digestive system.

Duly noting the symptom, Hermione glanced at the clock again. It made a faint tick as it clicked over again.

"Anything else?" She glanced up in time to see Severus' head lurch forward suddenly as he slumped over.

It was fortunate the chair he sat in was one of the more uncomfortable wooden varieties useful for interrogating students; the bare, hard arm checked his body as he lolled to one side, a faint sheen of sweat popping up on his sallow skin.

In a flash Hermione flew over the desk and crouched at his side. "Professor? Severus! Are you all right?" His head lurched back as his hands groped for the supporting arm of the chair, and deep gasp for breath was his only answer. His eyes, when he opened them, blinked rapidly before locking with hers.

She was caught in his intense gaze, but was aware that his face was flushed, the skin over his cheeks and forehead beading with an unhealthy sweat that even her nostrils registered as pungent and unpleasant. His scalp became damp with the same oily perspiration while his eyes, still locked with hers, began to tear up with thick droplets that oozed over his eyelashes at the corners, gumming them yellow. Suddenly he lurched forward again, doubled over with a deep rattling cough of excessive phlegm that made him hack and gag as he cleared it out into a hastily fumbled handkerchief.

The coughing fit subsided, allowing Severus to clear the gunk from his eyes with a clean corner of the linen square balled up in his fist.

"Do I need to Floo for Madame Pomphrey?" Hermione asked nervously. Severus shook his head and remained huddled over in his chair. He coughed a few more times, but his breathing remained even. Other than looking uncomfortable and very unappetizing, he seemed to be in no jeopardy.

After another minute, Severus took a deep breath and let it out with a resigned groan. "I need a bath," he announced in a disgusted voice. A bit unsteady, he rose to his feet, holding his arms away from his body in an attempt to keep the sweat-stained shirt away from his body. The tailored linen had been snowy white only moments ago, but now hung in wet, yellow and salt-crusted drapes from his shoulders.

"I'm not leaving you alone," Hermione warned.

"Adding voyeurism to your hobbies?" was his caustic response.

Hermione huffed at him, even though she knew he was being deliberately annoying to stop her hovering over him. "I'll wait outside your bathroom," she warned.

He gave no sign he had heard her as he left a trail of shoes, socks, and shirt between the doorway of his private rooms and the door of his bath. Hermione caught a glimpse of his pale back as he shut the door, and she was left to pace back and forth outside while she listened to him grumble to himself over the sound of running water.

He was remarkably quick about it; although she heard rather more than she expected when he apparently had the sudden urge to use all the bathroom facilities, not just the tub. The gurgling toilet flush was soon followed by the tub draining, and a moment later the door opened with a faint puff of steam. Hermione was confronted by a barely concealed Severus Snape, who was hastily wrapping a dressing gown around himself.

"Hermione!" he barked. "The blasted mirror is fogged over. What do you see?"

"A hole in your bathrobe," she replied evenly, pointing to the moth-sampled shoulder of the garment, where a pale circle of skin shone through the small opening. The comment earned her a glare, but she ignored his temper as she inspected his face. Pure astonishment kept any further smart remarks from forming.

His skin, usually sallow at best and occasionally yellow as old ivory when his liver was misbehaving, was as fine grained and pale as fresh parchment. The heat from his bath had brought a faint tinge of pink over his high cheekbones. His eyes, outside the dark iris, were missing their usual haze of bloodshot capillaries. In wonder Hermione inspected his hair, still damp, but the individual hairs stood out from his scalp as though waiting for a breeze to toss them about. She giggled, mostly in relief, at the idea of Severus Snape's hair wafting in the breeze like a Renaissance knight's.

His dark eyebrows frowned at her, but the fine skin around his eyes were missing their usual dry crinkle; he looked as though he were no more than his mid-thirties rather than over fifty.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"I feel… fine," he answered, and her smile brought the same scowl to his face. "What do you expect me to say? That I feel better than I have in years?"

"Do you?"

"Yes," he admitted truculently, pulling his robe straight. "My back doesn't hurt. My side doesn't hurt." One hand went to his right side, where his liver and gall bladder had been causing him almost constant pain. "Nothing hurts, actually. And I'm hungry," he added.

"You? Hungry? What is this world coming to?" Hermione teased. Severus Snape lived on coffee and little else; he had never once expressed a desire for food in her hearing, and seldom had an appetite when she insisted he eat.

"Yes, hungry. I'd kill for a roast beef sandwich. With horseradish." He appeared confused, as though he didn't quite believe the words that had come out of his mouth.

"All right. You Floo the kitchens for dinner and I'll fetch the notebook," Hermione proposed.

He nodded and reached for the Floo powder as she faded through the walls, taking a shortcut to the laboratory. The food arrived by house elf while Hermione jotted down the dramatic results of the first dose of Phoenix Tears Potion brewed in a thousand years. Severus tucked in to the sandwiches immediately, and had wolfed down the first before the first page of notes was completed.

"It seems to me that the potion was purging your body of all toxins," Hermione posited, one of his quills poised over the parchment. The notebook was shaggy with notes and copied references stuck in every which way, but was charmed to add new pages at the back whenever needed. Hermione could see they'd be filling up many more pages before they were done.

Severus nodded as he chewed. "Exactly. Pores, respiratory system, tear ducts, the lot."

"Digestive system?" she asked tactfully, and he agreed without embarrassment.

"That, too. Everything."

Hermione checked the clock. "It's been an hour, now. Describe your physical state."

"I feel full," he announced, tossing down his napkin over the empty plate. A few scattered crumbs were all the evidence that remained of two thick sandwiches and a plum tart. Ron Weasley was the only person she'd ever seen eat faster than the man in front of her.

"What else? Any headache or dizziness?"

Waving a hand in denial, Severus poured a full glass of water and downed half of it. "Nothing like that," he asserted. Appearing almost bonelessly relaxed, he leaned back in his chair and turned his attention to his body's condition. "My joints are all pain-free. Muscles feel relaxed." A huge yawn hit him. "I'm sleepy," he mentioned.

Hermione stared at him over the notebook. "No."

He nodded, and another yawn cracked his jaw. "I am. Dead tired, suddenly."

"Severus Snape, I've never seen you sleepy in the entire time I've known you."

"I've always taken those damned stimulants for the Braxdyce. They've been purged from my system."

"Are you all right without them?"

He tried to speak the affirmative, but another yawn robbed him. "I should be. If not, I can take them in a few hours. If the Phoenix Tears has worked as we hoped, it should have cured the Braxdyce."

"Professor, you can't assume that it has. And I'm still not sure it was wise to test it on you before we'd tried a rat or something. You could still have a reaction."

Severus gave her the same slightly exasperated look that he used when accusing her of 'Nanny' behavior. "Yes, and the castle could collapse and kill us all in our sleep. If either of those happen, you can say 'I told you so' and then show me how to thrash Peeves; I've wanted to do that since I was a First Year."

"That's not funny!"

He had the grace to look apologetic. "I beg your pardon. I know how you dislike jokes regarding death. I can only plead fatigue, and ask that you overlook my lack of tact. Goodnight, Miss Granger."

"Goodnight, Professor," she replied as he rose from his chair and moved towards his bed chamber. Near the doorway, he stumbled slightly, but called out that he was fine and she was not to fuss.

He left behind a silence that settled like deep-fallen snow in the room, broken only by a small 'pop' as a house elf appeared to deal with the dishes. The creature let out a squeak upon seeing Hermione sitting at the table, but hastily bowed. Hermione gave the elf a reassuring smile before turning invisible, allowing the creature to get on with clearing the dishes while she wandered around the room.

'He'll be fine,' she told herself once the elf had gone, taking the dishes and the crumbs. 'Nothing in the original ingredients was remotely toxic; even if did him no good at all, it shouldn't have done him any harm.' Returning to the log book and making notes kept her occupied for a bit longer, but after an hour Hermione could no longer resist the urge to look in on Snape. Even as she told herself it was for the sake of documenting how well the potion helped him sleep, she knew it was a feeble excuse. Her only concern was that he was alive and well, and not suffering from an unforeseen reaction.

In the dark bedroom, Severus Snape lay motionless under his coverlet, still wrapped in his moth-eaten bathrobe. His breathing was deep and even, without the slight snores she usually heard, and he lacked the usual restlessness that previously characterized his sleep. Here, in the intimate blackness of his sleeping chambers, prudence was rapidly losing the battle with her emotions.

Even as she told herself to be sensible, a part of her longed to find the unguarded, open man within his unconscious mind. The brief, timeless moments she spent in his dreams allowed her to see a part of him no one else had ever been privileged to see. And while she dreaded the idea Severus might discover her trespassing, a part of her wished, however vainly, that she would someday see that part of him in his conscious behavior.

Hovering near the bed, Hermione struggled one last time against temptation but, ultimately, was helpless to resist. She settled over his sleeping body and allowed herself to be drawn down and in.

At first, a hard-edged reality was difficult to find; the dreamscape of Severus' mind flooded past her at a breakneck speed. Hermione was carried along with the tide of images and sounds and sensations, where she drifted without direction or comprehension. A sense of urgency caught at her, and she called out.

"Severus? Where are you?"

A voice answered, and when she turned Hermione caught sight of his tall form striding towards her, the black trousers and white shirt he wore in his dreams standing out against the maelstrom.

"Where have you been?" Severus demanded, seizing one of her hands and pulling her towards him. "I've been calling you and calling you."

"You have?"

"Of course I have," he told her, as though it made perfect sense.

It did, Hermione supposed, more than a little relieved. If he had unconsciously been using his Legilimency skills while asleep, it could explain why she felt compelled to join his dreams. Or it could all be codswallop, and she had no more self-control than a fifth-year Hufflepuff on her second date.

"Are you feeling all right?" she questioned him, rather than dwell on her own lack of discipline.

"I feel wonderful," he declared with a sly grin. "Almost as wonderful as you look."

Hermione snorted at his blatant flattery. His grin only widened, and she was struck by the confidence in his easy manner. For once he was not frantic or harried; his clothing was neat and his dark hair pulled into a sleek tail at the nape of his neck. The careworn lines around his mouth had disappeared with the crooked smile that sat easily on his thin lips.

"Come on," he demanded.

"Where?"

"Anywhere. We need to do something. Anything."

The landscape around them changed and became an open courtyard Hermione vaguely recognized from the grounds somewhere around Hogwarts. The castle had several hidden courtyards, most of which were forbidden to the students but had been found by those more adventurous explorers with mischief or romance in mind. This one was large, with a fountain in the center, though the water had dried up long ago and the basin held only crisp autumn leaves. Old trees, gnarled and stunted in their cramped space, ringed the open area. Moss grew in nubby lines between the same ancient gray stones that made up the majority of the castle, the sharply carved lines softened by age and weather.

"Now what?" she asked playfully.

"Dance with me," he ordered.

Even as she opened her mouth to protest, Severus pulled her close and twirled her around. In the trees, the birds twittered and occasionally trilled a few notes, but he seemed to think it was music enough for his purposes. With surprising grace he pushed and pulled her from side to side. As with most dreams, the intent was enough and Hermione found herself following his lead through a complicated quadrille without actually knowing what she was doing.

Her robes flowed into a more formal, old-fashioned design, low-cut and tight across the bodice with extra flounces near the hem. With a bit of concentration, she was able to make them deep blue, a welcome change from the monochromatic gray that she was reduced to as a ghost. With a flourish and a boyish grin, Severus held out one arm. The white shirt he wore rippled into a full-cut garment more suitable for Sir Nicholas than the buttoned-down Potions Master.

Hermione could not help laughing as she followed his steps around the fountain in the center of the courtyard.

"What's funny?"

"You look like a pirate," she told him.

"Aye, lass," he replied in a horrid attempt at an accent. This got him another laugh, and as she pivoted under his arm once more, he swooped down and kissed her.

Laughter fled as she concentrated on the feel of his lips on hers, the wiry strength of his arms around her. Pure physical sensation was as unfamiliar to her as the leap of arousal that made her heart pound.

"I don't have a heart," she murmured against his lips. "How can this-" Hermione was interrupted by another kiss, and she gave up trying to impose her own sense of truth on this dream. Like all dreams, it lacked a certain amount of focus or true substance, but the feel of his body against hers was real enough. It did not matter how they suddenly came to be in a canopied bed rather than the stone courtyard. All that did matter was the warmth of his kisses and the urgent voice in her ear.

"I need you," he murmured. "Hermione…"

Her name. He'd said her name. A surge of emotion clogged her throat, threatening to drown her with the feelings she'd repressed. "I'm yours," she told him feverishly. "Anything you need from me, Severus. Anything."

The next few moments were a blur of images, the sensation of hands on her naked breasts and elsewhere; the weight of him sliding between her thighs; a sense of their bodies fitting intimately together. It was fast, and overwhelming, and just a little confusing as they strained against one another, but she cried out in ecstasy even as his deep voice called her name out once more, thick with desire.

"Hermione!"

Hermione abruptly found herself floating over his bed, mystified, every inch of her body tingling and thrumming with longing. Below, the man on the bed turned over, snorting softly as his breathing changed. Stunned beyond words, Hermione was torn between outrage, relief, and the urge to burst into inappropriate giggles at the stereotype of men who fall asleep right after sex.

But following those emotions was the simple, bittersweet truth that could no longer put off. She was deeply, hopelessly in love with Severus Snape.


	11. Chapter 11

"Hmm.

"Hmmmm.

"Ah."

"Really, Poppy. You're starting to sound like the Headmaster. Either that, or a bumblebee."

Poppy Pomfrey withdrew the small scope from Severus' left ear and fixed him with a stern glare. "Don't you get shirty with me, Severus Snape. After all the times I've put you back together, I'm not about to pat you on the head and send you toddling back to your dungeon just because you've cooked up some supposedly miraculous glop."

"I'm perfectly fine, woman. Leave off."

Poppy ignored him in favor of sticking her scope into his other ear, apparently attempting to see daylight on the other side. Given the rather firm grip she had on his earlobe, Severus was more inclined to behave whether he liked it or not. Thankfully only one student was currently in residence in the Hospital Wing, and the boy appeared to be sound asleep with the covers tucked up around his shoulders.

"I really don't understand what the fuss is, Poppy. I'm simply feeling better than usual lately."

"Feeling better, are you?" The mediwitch left his ears alone and began digging her cold, bony fingers into his throat and jaw. "I'd say you're feeling better. You haven't been this healthy since you were a boy. Swallow."

Obediently Severus swallowed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. So far, she'd performed five different diagnostic charms on him, thumped his chest, demanded he stick out his tongue, and poked him in places he hadn't realized were still ticklish. It was unseemly for a fifty-year-old man to skitter sideways on an exam table just because his mediwitch wanted to palpate his innards. All the while, her actions were accompanied by a monologue deriding his impetuous actions and lack of judgement.

"Of all the irresponsible behavior…testing an unknown potion all by yourself in that hole of a dungeon…you could have died down there and no one would have noticed for days. Heaven knows the children would never have volunteered the fact you were missing from class."

"I am a Potions Master, in case you'd forgotten. I knew what I was doing."

This earned him another harrumph. "As a Potions Master, you should have known better!" Poppy clucked her tongue and did her level best to make Severus feel like a First Year student again, but eventually stopped her poking and crossed her arms over her thin chest. "So – what's in this new miracle potion you've concocted?"

Severus told her, glossing over many of the details and all of the preparations. The older woman frowned thoughtfully and nodded several times, but did not interrupt. When he'd finished describing the purgative effects of the potion, she silently handed him back his shirt, which he donned with all due haste.

"It will be interesting to see you develop this, Severus, but I still think you were a damned fool to test it like that. You could have turned yourself inside out."

"Yes, I'm aware of that," he replied frostily. "I've already heard that opinion from more than one person."

"And I would be one of them, Severus," added a voice from the doorway as Albus Dumbledore entered the room.

"Really, Headmaster," Severus drawled. "It took you two days to notice the difference. I hardly think the situation merits such attention."

In his long, star-embroidered robes, Professor Dumbledore looked far too old to be chiding his employees like recalcitrant children, but he still managed it. "Perhaps if you joined the staff for meals more often, Professor, we might have taken notice sooner. How long has it been since you took it upon yourself to play guinea pig?"

Severus refused to be cowed. "A week, sir."

"And you've had no other recurrence of your illness?"

"None," he denied. "I've even indulged in a plate of fish and chips, without repercussions." In truth, he'd gleefully eaten two full helpings of the greasy food; something his stomach would never have withstood ten days earlier.

"No side effects whatsoever?" Poppy questioned sharply.

"None. Unless you count a sudden surge of randy dreams," he added blithely, taking an obscure satisfaction in the embarrassed huff his words elicited. Dumbledore chuckled into his beard, however, and the mediwitch stalked off, telling them she washed her hands of him and muttering under her breath about wizards who never grew up.

"It's wonderful to see you in such good health, Severus," the old man told him. "I've been worried about you, these last few years."

"I don't see why," Severus replied, buttoning his vest and retying his cravat. "I've had Braxdyce since I was a child."

"Yes, and you're one of the few children who survived to adulthood. Thanks, in no small part, to your dedication to your art. This potion – Phoenix Tears, did you call it? – will quite possibly save the lives of countless people who suffer from chronic diseases."

"Only from systemic failures or external trauma, Headmaster," Severus warned. "And not until after we have achieved our final goal."

Dumbledore gave him a sharp look over his half-moon glasses. "Are you saying you will not make this discovery public?"

Severus paused for a moment in the act of pulling on his frock coat. "I believe it would be prudent to delay a bit, Headmaster. This elixir is a powerful healing agent. It could make a very large difference on a battlefield, should one side possess it and the other not."

A heavy sigh answered this proposition, but Dumbledore nodded sadly. "I agree, although it pains me to do so. Your sudden improvement in health will not go unnoticed among certain parties, however."

"No, it won't," Severus agreed. "After all, my condition is – was – a well-known source of humor to those same parties. When I inform a particular individual that I have found a cure for Braxdyce, and go into significant detail as to my discovery, I can guarantee that all listeners' eyes will glaze over in very short order. I'll be lucky if I escape a hexing for boring him with my twaddle."

"That sounds like an excellent approach, my boy. Trust a Slytherin to fool another Slytherin with the truth." Professor Dumbledore's rusty chuckle was a bit more robust that usual, and Severus should have caught that warning signal. As it was, he did not become suspicious until his supervisor encircled his shoulders with one arm, directing him to walk down the hall with him.

"Since you're feeling so much better, Severus, I have a small task I'd like you to take on." The Headmaster beamed at him, and a sudden apprehension shot through him. He glanced down at the older man's encompassing limb with something close to alarm.

"Actually, Headmaster, I do have several duties I have neglected--" the Potion Master protested, only to be cut off.

"Nonsense, my boy," Professor Dumbledore assured him. "It won't take more than an afternoon. Perhaps into the evening, but no more than that."

&&&&&

"I've received a wedding invitation," Severus told Hermione that evening, his voice more suitable for announcing a death. "Normally I would not even bother to owl my refusal, but in consideration of the Headmaster's prior commitment, it seems I will attend."

"Really?" Hermione replied absently, most of her attention on the hippogriff talon she was reducing to a fine powder. Severus routinely shared a weekend dinner with his godson, and occasionally shared some of the tidbits with her. It seemed possible that Draco had finally settled on one of the parade of witches he courted and regaled his Godfather with, but surely he would be a bit more enthusiastic about attending Draco's wedding. "Anyone important?"

"Ronald Weasley," was the clipped answer.

"You're joking. Ron – getting married? Is he mad? He's only just gotten out of Auror school!"

Severus gave her a long, measured look. "He is twenty-seven, Hermione. A tad young, from my point of view, but not that unusual."

Hermione paused her grating, the utensils in her hand drifting towards the table as she stared at him, incredulous. "What year is this?"

"Two thousand eight, and close your mouth. It's very unattractive to see the bookcase through the back of your tongue."

Completely flummoxed, Hermione left her worktable and drifted over to the empty chair, where she settled absently, a blank, pensive look on her translucent features. Severus let her gaze off into space for several moments while she came to terms with the previously unnoticed passing of time.

"Do you think Harry will be his best man?" she asked finally.

"As certain as the sun rises and bread falls butter side down," he answered crisply. "Those two are as thick as thieves and not nearly as discreet. While I'm officially representing the Headmaster at this wedding, the Dark Lord will – theoretically – appreciate any report I would make regarding Potter and his friends."

"You should go," Hermione told him abruptly, focussing on him once more. "Enjoy yourself."

Severus gave her a look of patent disbelief. "What could possibly make you think I'd find anything enjoyable about a wedding?"

"I don't know. A lot of people meet their future spouses at weddings."

"I bed your pardon?" Snape now stared at her as though he feared she'd gone mad.

Hermione shrugged. "Well, you can never tell. Maybe some lady will catch your eye. When's the last time you spent any time socializing with a pretty young witch?"

"Listen to me, Nanny Granger," he sneered. "My grandmother has been dead for decades, and the last thing I need is someone else tutting over my social life."

"Or lack thereof," Hermione shot back dryly. It took every ounce of fortitude Hermione had to maintain a light-hearted tone while she advised Severus Snape to find a woman.

The last thing she wanted was to give up her relationship with Severus, but a week of being drawn repeatedly into his dreams, both erotic and mundane, had only served to clarify just how impossible the situation was. He was human, alive, and only fifty. With his returned health, he had quite possibly a century or more ahead of him to find happiness, and someone to share it with. Someone who could share his entire life with him, not just potter about with his potions and a few snatched moments of intimacy while he was unconscious. Despite his grumbling, she knew he'd be better off with a real – living – woman.

"Seriously, Professor, you shouldn't hang around a dungeon with old, dead people. Get out and live a little."

"Old, dead people," he scoffed. "I'm older than you are, I'll have you know. You're what, 26 now?"

"Twenty-seven, same as Ron," she reminded him. "Although technically, I should have stopped counting at seventeen."

"Urgh," he replied succinctly. "To be eternally seventeen – I can't imagine a hell worse than remaining seventeen forever."

She shot him a glower, which he returned.

"You don't look seventeen, you know, and you certainly don't act that way. Nor did you when you actually were seventeen, as I recall."

"I had my moments," she confessed. "Being a ghost changes your perspectives quite a bit."

"So I'd imagine."

He said nothing else, but watched her pensively for so long that she finally blurted out "What?"

His voice was soft as he shook his head, and then answered. "One of my greatest regrets is your death, Hermione. I would have liked to see what you turned out to be. As much as I ridiculed Minerva, I must admit you had a great deal of promise."

"The world goes on without me, Professor Snape."

"Would you not call me that? Your help – your friendship – has become something of value to me, these last few years, Hermione. I regret many things, but more than that I wish I'd done so many things differently. If I had cultivated your talent for potions when you were a student, it's possible you would have realized the danger that afternoon… Odd, isn't it, that my closest confidante is someone I was responsible for killing?"

Hermione had no answer to that; she could not speak at all. In all the time she had known Severus Snape, his layers of black robes and frock coat were incidental to the layers of sarcasm and temperament. To see him thus, dressed in his preferred working attire of white shirt and black trousers, and to hear such plain, genuine honesty was almost more than she could bear.

Severus did not seem to expect an answer. He smiled slightly, more a wry lift of the corner of his mouth, before going back to preparing the lesson plans spread across his desk.

Although she knew she was staring, Hermione could not tear her eyes away from Severus. He was doing nothing more exotic than calculating an order for the coming year, seated at his desk, but a sudden burst of otherworldly clarity allowed her to see the man for all that he was and all that he had been. Tormented child and tormenting professor, Death Eater and penitent sinner, all forged together to form the man she loved. This was the man who had tried desperately to resuscitate his dying student, the same man who wept silently and alone at the foot of her funeral bier.

The man she would have to let go, if he were to have any chance of a real life.

&&&&&

"How many times do we have to go through this?"

Kingsley Shacklebolt was exasperated, and it showed in the way he rubbed his broad hands over his baldpate, adding even more wrinkles to the ebony skin over his nearly non-existent eyebrows. The other members of the Order all shifted diffidently in their seats, reluctant to make eye contact with each other. The regular meetings had become too regular of late, all reporting bad news and progress reports that showed little progress.

"I understand your frustration, Kingsley, but we cannot afford to do anything rash at this juncture. Our forces are spread too thin as it is."

"With all due respect, Headmaster, we're always spread too thin. My Aurors are called out once or twice a week to deal with Death Eater activities. If we're lucky, it's just to clean up the evidence, and not deal with dead bodies. The Ministry talks a good game, but they're gie weak on the follow through."

"The Ministry has quite enough to deal with now, Kingsley," warned Arthur Weasley, who looked chagrined to be defending his employers. "I'm not a supporter of Fudge, or his policies, but the recent upsurge of Purebloods in the Ministry requires him to step very carefully when it comes to making changes. One foot wrong and he'll be out of office before you can say 'whoops.' And then there's no telling who will be in power after that."

"Better the devil you know than the devil you don't," added Tonks, tugging on her (for now) bright green locks.

"This arguing is getting us nowhere," growled Moody from the corner. His wooden ball at the end of his false leg rattled across the floorboards as he turned to stare at Tonks and Shacklebolt both. They were at opposite ends of the Room of Requirement, but with his rolling magic eye he managed it quite well. "We've been at this for nearly twelve years now, and we're no closer to defeating Voldemort than we ever were."

"It's hard to hunt someone when you don't know where they are," Shacklebolt pointed out tersely. "And Snape here can't tell us where he's going to be."

"If we had a way to track Snape when he's summoned," Harry began, only to be cut off by his superior.

"I've told you before, Potter, I'm not sending a squad of men in blind after a bunch of Death Eaters. Without knowing the lay of the land or some intelligence on their possible escape routes, we would either be committing suicide or allowing all of them to get away. I'm not taking that chance."

Harry slumped back in his chair, dejected.

Strategy was never his strong point, Hermione reflected fondly as she perched in her usual place on the back of Harry's chair. He was absolutely unparalleled when it came to actual combat, and he had a knack for getting his fellow Aurors out of tight spots when the battle plans went completely in the toilet, but he was hopeless at the pre-planning stage.

"Is there anyplace Voldemort does return to?" she asked aloud, cutting through the disgruntled rumbling among the Order members. "I mean, I doubt he goes back to Godric's Hollow on Halloween every year for memory's sake, but surely he repeats once in a while?"

She had directed her comments to the crowd at large, but her question truly was for Severus. Eyes turned to the man, and he steepled his fingers together as he thought.

"Occasionally," he replied at last. "There's an old, deserted abbey in the Wye river valley in Wales.1 It's been deserted for centuries. He has summoned us there on more than one occasion, but not recently. The ruined Norman fort in Wilshire. It's a local Muggle historical site, and it suites his sense of humor to use it. And I can recall an old roman amphitheatre in Caerleon." He shook his head, frowning. "Those are truly the only places I remember being used more than twice in the last dozen years."

A dejected sound came from Tonks as she let out a disappointed breath, but Harry remained intent on Professor Snape's information.

"Those could at least give us a place to start. My teams can check each of those sites out, and get a feel for the place."

"Somehow," drawled Severus, "I think even the Muggles will notice a pack of Aurors trooping all over a Registered Historical Site, not to mention word is sure to get back to those we'd least like to hear."

"Don't worry so much, Professor," Harry assured him with a grin. "We know what we're doing. A single team goes in, dressed in Muggle clothing, and play tourist all over the place. They put their memories in a Pensive and the others train from there. It's been done before."

"It has the added benefit of keeping those locations a secret," added Moody. "The trainees can see what's what without knowing exactly where those locations are. Keeps the leaks to a minimum."

"It's a waste of time," protested Hestia Jones. The passing years had not been kind to her, and she bore deep crow's feet around her eyes and her dark hair had several shades of gray streaking through it. "It could be another year before You-Know-Who decides to use one of those places again."

"And sitting around here with our thumbs up our arses isn't?" Harry shot back.

Before the rest of the group could wade in with their own objections and opinions, Dumbledore raised his hands and quieted the rising voices.

"It is a sound notion, and we will include it along with all our other plans," he told them in a voice that brooked no opposition. "If we have even a chance of catching Voldemort when he least expects it, it could make the difference between victory and utter defeat. We are all aware of how long this struggle has gone on, and how much more we have yet to endure before this nightmare is over.

Now," he continued, when the rest of the Order had settled again, "you have all been given the briefing on this potion Severus has perfected."

"It's hardly perfected, Headmaster," the Potion Master protested. "There are still a variety of subtle variations that need clarifying before it's even close to acceptable."

"Nonsense, Severus," protested Arthur Weasley, whose glasses were perched atop his balding head, making him look even more scatter-brained than usual. "It's amazing stuff, really. Wish I'd had some when that beastly snake bit me, that one time."

"One of my men was hit by a flaying hex last week," Kingsley Shacklebolt mentioned. "My medic tells me he would have died if I hadn't had that sample on me."

Severus put on the sourest face he had, though Hermione knew he did it only to keep from seeming pleased at the compliments.

"When can we get more of this stuff?" Harry asked. "It has a lot of potential for saving our Aurors when they tangle with Death Eaters."

"I'll be glad to make it in bucketloads, Potter, as soon as you find me a solid gold bathtub and a meteorite the size of your overly-inflated head," Severus sneered. He caught a look of disapproval from Hermione, but Harry merely grinned at him. The sour look returned as Severus realized he'd completely lost the ability to intimidate his former students.

"We're still working on refining the formula," Severus confessed. "I am saving each successful batch, and more samples will be distributed among the Aurors and other members of the Order who most need it. Unfortunately we are, as Mr. Potter pointed out, quite limited in quantity. The cauldron I must use will only produce a pint at a time, and certain supplies are rather limited. Additionally, we have no idea how long the potion will remain effective, though preliminary results are optimistic."

"Any contribution you can make is appreciated," the Headmaster told him. "Now, let us turn our attention to the latest Ministry employees. Arthur, what can you tell us?"

The focus of the meeting turned, then, and Hermione also turned her attention to the intelligence provided by those Ministry employees in the Order who suspected their coworkers of being Death Eater sympathizers.

Another hour passed before the meeting broke up at last. Many took their leave in the same circumspect manner they arrived, although with the summer break there were very few eyes around to notice them leaving. Some lingered to have private discussions with the Headmaster that were not part of the general Order business. Severus Snape gave Hermione a questioning glance, to which she nodded in an affirmative after indicating Harry Potter with a subtle tilt of her head.

Harry made a show of stretching his now better than six-foot frame, groaning as muscles extended after several hours of being trapped in an over-stuffed chair. "How's things, Hermione?" he asked as he flopped down in the same seat, this time with one long leg slung over the arm of the chair.

"Oh, same as usual, Harry. Peeves is still obnoxious, the students are still exploding cauldrons in Potions, and the inter-house rivalry is as fierce as ever."

Bright green eyes followed her as she perched on nothing within easy conversation distance from his chair. He grinned, as if appreciating the things she could do. "Ron and I missed you at his wedding, you know. Did you get the pictures I sent?"

"I did, thank you. Where did he meet Moira, anyway?"

"Chasing dragons with Charlie," Harry told her with a snort. "Ron went out to visit him, about a year ago. Moira was an intern at the reservation, but one season was enough for her. She told Ron his brother was barking, and Ron couldn't really argue with her, seeing as how he'd gotten bit by a hatching just the day before."

"Is he happy?" she asked, her voice cracking suddenly.

"Yes, I think he is. I know he's not really kept in touch with you, Hermione. I think… well, it doesn't matter."

"No, tell me," Hermione insisted. "You think what?"

The look in Harry's eyes turned grave and serious. "I honestly think Ron was still a little bit in love with you when you died, Hermione. It was bad enough, you being friends with him after you two broke up, but add your death on top of that…Ron seemed fine, those last few weeks before we graduated, but once we were away from here I think he realized that you were really, truly out of his reach, forever. It was like you died all over again. And now that he's found his true love, it's just too hard for him to keep you in his heart as anything but a memory."

"I think I can understand that," Hermione replied slowly. "It was a bit of a shock when Severus told me Ron was getting married. He had to let go, eventually. I'm just sorry it was so painful for him. I'm glad he's finally found someone to make him happy."

"Oh, he's happy, all right," Harry told her with a chuckle. "Even more than you'd guess – he just told me Moira's expecting."

"What?" She let out a peal of laughter. "He didn't waste any time, did he? Heaven knows, Molly will be counting on her fingers when that baby's born."

"She's not the only one. His brothers are all marking their calendars, and Draco Malfoy's been almost sick with having to keep his mouth shut."

"Draco? What's he got to do with Ron and Moira?"

"You haven't heard?" A gleeful sparkle returned to Harry's eyes. "He's been dating Ginny."

"Malfoy? And Ginny? That's impossible!"

"That's what we all thought. Apparently, Malfoy was at some Ministry affair last fall. Molly Weasley couldn't go with Arthur for some reason, so he brought Ginny with him instead.

"They started arguing over something trivial, and kept it up all through the dinner. Molly was appalled when she heard about it, but Malfoy must have enjoyed it, because he showed up the next opportunity he had. They've been bickering ever since."

"Either Ginny is insane, or Draco Malfoy really has changed," Hermione observed.

"Well, he still has an attitude about Muggleborns, but Ginny may be bringing him around. Ron nearly chokes every time he has to sit at family dinners with him, and I can barely stand to be in the same in the same room with him. But Gin threatened to hex all three of us if we don't behave. Nobody's bled yet," Harry added cheerfully, "but we've managed to pull a few jinxes on each other when she's out of the room."

"Draco actually sits down with the Weasleys for dinner? At the Burrow?" Hermione was nearly speechless with shock.

Harry held his hand over his heart. "Wizard's honor. Didn't open his mouth unless it was to put food in it. And he seems sincere in his courting. He even gave Ginny a gob of money when she was fund-raising for that orphanage she's helping to run."

"I did wonder what Ginny was going to do after school," Hermione confessed. "I think she'd be good at that – she's got Molly for an example when it comes to providing for a lot of children on a shoestring budget."

"I know for a fact she's not entirely fooled by Draco Malfoy's charms," Harry added. "I heard her make him a promise one evening. Said if she ever found the Dark Mark on him, she'd make him think Crucio was a tickling charm."

"Good for her. She might actually be what Draco needs. He's been a bit lost since his father died, and she's as levelheaded and no-nonsense as they come. He may have started dating her for the sake of appearance, I doubt he'd have kept it up, let alone visit the Burrow, if he weren't serious."

"How do you know what Malfoy needs?" Harry asked.

Hermione shrugged. "He talks to Severus now and then. He's Severus' godson."

"Severus, is it?"

"I haunt his classroom, Harry," she told him patiently. "We had to come to a truce or else it would have gotten very ugly."

"I can see that," he admitted. "I also saw you two making eyes at each other."

"Harry!" Hermione cast about for something to throw, but didn't see anything.

Laughing, Harry held up his hands in surrender. "Only kidding, Hermione. It was just interesting, watching you doing the silent shorthand with the old bat. You two worked together on this potion, didn't you?"

"It was truly a collaboration, Harry. It was completely brilliant."

"I'll say it's brilliant. I wouldn't have expected anything else from you, you know."

A slight silver blush grew on her gray cheeks, but she smiled at her old friend. "Now all Severus and I have to do is perfect it."

"That shouldn't take you long," Harry told her in a light-hearted voice. "Then you can work on that polarity thing. Kingsley and Moody have come up with a few interesting variations on some high-level hexes."

"Sorry, Harry. I haven't given it much thought lately. Without a wand, I can't cast any spells."

"You can't use one?"

She shook her head. "Real wands burn my hand, and when I make one materialize," and she demonstrated, pulling a translucent wand from her sleeve with a frown of concentration, "it doesn't do diddle. I think I'm just at the wrong end of the magical spectrum to perform the kind of magic that can be channeled through a wand."

"Hmm. Well, maybe once this war is over, we'll all have the time to work on it. I think you'd be magnificent."

Hermione smiled at her friend fondly, but after a moment she detected a faint shadow in his green eyes. "What's wrong, Harry?"

He waved away her concern. "Oh, just thinking. About you, and Ron."

For a moment she thought he might have been jealous of Ron's happiness, having started a family when Harry had always craved just that, but his next words dispelled that thought.

"I always figured it would be the three of us, you know? You, me, and Ron, facing down Voldemort at the very end." He laced his fingers over his stomach, settling down into the chair a little deeper. "I've already decided not to ask Ron to be there, when that day comes. If I have my way, he won't even know about the battle until it's all over." His messy black hair, in need of a haircut as usual, riffled over the back of the chair as he tilted his gaze up to meet hers. "I just wish you were able to be there with me, Hermione."

"I'm so sorry, Harry," Hermione told him. "If there were any way I could be there, I would. But I'm anchored here at Hogwarts. I can't go any further than a few miles in any direction."

"I know. I asked," he responded. "But I know you'll always be in my heart, Hermione."2

"And you in mine, Harry. I love you, you mad idiot."

His smile was lopsided, but warm and sincere. "You too, you daft cow."

&&&&&

Since the night he had personally tested the potion that had so dramatically improved his health, Severus had also noticed some other improvements. His body, no longer fed a steady diet of stimulants, demanded regular and more than negligible amounts of sleep. He was no longer able to spend half the night stirring and experimenting in his private lab, since staying awake past midnight more than a few nights in a row left him with headaches and the unbearable urge to crawl into bed and spend ten hours at a stretch there. It also left him with a ghost who nagged at him endlessly.

If he noticed that Hermione had changed her own hours to suit his, he did not comment, but retired to his rooms as soon after dinner as could be considered acceptable by his employer. Some nights he was able to squeeze in a full four hours of work before being sent off to bed; he argued out of principle but was finally forced to accept the wisdom of pacing himself. Severus had no idea whether it was the potion itself or the regular schedule of rest that made his working hours so productive, but he could not deny that his mind was sharper and his leaps of logic more accurate as he slaved to understand and perfect the Phoenix Tears potion.

The one thing he could not quite fathom, though, was the subtle sense that something was missing, or rather not quite right, with the hours that he spent in the lab. His personal haunt was present, as always, and although it ran against his instincts to acknowledge, even to himself, that he enjoyed her company, he was honest enough to admit that he did. Many years had passed since he had worked beside another Potions Master, and while Hermione was not a master and, technically, incapable of becoming one, he put her skills above anyone he'd ever dealt with save the Master Alchemist himself, Albus Dumbledore.

As Severus watched her prepare yet another trial of their breakthrough formula, his thoughts returned once more to the night she'd told him to go out and find a young witch to court. In not so many words, Hermione had indicated she thought he should find company other than her own with which to spend his time. He wasn't sure if that was for his sake or for hers, though she'd given him no indication that she was bored with his companionship.

Once or twice he had noticed a witch during his infrequent forays to Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley. He was always wary in crowds, and was usually aware when he caught a female's eye. They had never been worth pursuing, in his opinion, since their appeal was superficial and waned rapidly after a few minutes of conversation with them. The one and only benefit the ladies could provide was just as easily ahem handled in the privacy of his bath. Other than relieving his recently revived libido, he had everything he needed at Hogwarts.

Something nagged at his jumbled thoughts, and he frowned as he retraced his mental path. What was it? Companionship. Perhaps that was the right word, he mused, his attention only half on the notes in front of him. A comely witch was good for what she was good for, and not much else. He'd long since grown tired of giggling witches and the games associated with courting them. Hell, even his godson had apparently given up light skirts and free kisses for something a little more down to earth.

A snort escaped him without his realizing it, causing Hermione to glance up at him, but he shook his head and she returned to her task. Ginevra Weasley, youngest child and only daughter of Arthur and Molly Weasley, was the most sensible witch he'd ever seen come through Hogwarts. Second most, he amended, glancing once more at his lab partner. Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger were very similar, he decided.

Like Ginny, Hermione was sensible, and pragmatic, an excellent sounding board, and certainly better than talking to himself. That alone made her more than enough companionship for anyone. And if he were indeed lucky enough to survive the final battle between the Dark Lord and Harry Potter, Severus could easily imagine spending the next several decades exactly as he had the last – forcing the subject of potions between the ears of dense students by day and puttering around his lab by night.

No sooner had he finally put order to the random, swirling thoughts in his head, the squat clock on the desk began to chime the hour. In all his woolgathering, midnight had crept up and announced itself with a slightly off-tone brass chime.

"Don't worry about that, Hermione," he called out, forestalling her reach towards another bag of roots. "The students will be arriving next week, and those will make an excellent detention."

"Already counting your next victims?" she asked lightly, even as she began to clear up her workstation. "Are you sure they'll do it right?"

"They'll bloody well better, or they'll have their next detention with Filch," he told her. "Goodnight, Hermione."

"Goodnight," she answered without looking up.

Alone in Snape's private laboratory, Hermione put her things away and tried to decide why she was in such a funk this evening. Her 'day' had begun early, as requested by the new Muggle Studies Professor, who was as qualified as most of the subject's teachers were – which was to say, not very. She'd spent hours explaining the workings of a blender and a mobile phone to the teacher, without even mentioning the theory of electricity to the hopeless little man. She was successful, however, in convincing Professor Wilmington that a 'magic fingers' bed was not an appropriate display item for schoolchildren.

By the time she'd taken her turn to patrol the corridors of the school, it was already after ten o'clock. When she'd finally joined Severus in his lab, they'd barely spoken to each other, both going about their tasks with little need to converse.

While they often worked side by side quietly, tonight had been different for some reason and she was at a loss to explain why. Severus had been working on his papers, in the vague idea that he might someday be able to publish a dissertation on the Phoenix Tears. Usually, however, he asked for her input on certain passages as he wrote, and then read back the final product. Tonight, he'd written less than a page and had looked at her often when he thought she wasn't aware of it. Hermione did not possess a stomach any longer, but she was very nearly queasy with anxiety.

If Severus ever suspected her of violating the privacy of his dreaming mind, his furious reaction would make all his other rages pale by comparison. The hollow yearning that overtook her several times a month, however, could only be assuaged when she followed the silent call to a dungeon room inhabited by that same sleeping, dreaming man. Those dreams followed no predictable pattern, but varied between nightmares, erotic fantasies, and run of the mill, meaningless mental wanderings without purpose or significance. One incident had even involved Severus as an old man, wandering Hogwarts like an odd rendition of Albus Dumbledore, with the students addressing him as Headmaster. It was possible Severus would be promoted to that office at some time in the distant future – as long as he had never personally taught any of the Ministry officials or Board of Governors who might vote on his election to that post.

Amused despite her mood, Hermione let out a snort of laughter. The thought of Severus Snape presiding over a Leaving Feast and being required to award a House Cup to Gryffindor was a mental image worth preserving. She chuckled as she racked her last tools and put brushed the scraps into a bin, then flew over to the single remaining candle. The flame went out quickly as she brushed her cold, phantom hand over the top of the wick.

No sooner had she left the dungeons, intent on returning to the small nook at the top of the stairs where she retreated for privacy, than she felt the tenuous, whispering call against her mind. It wasn't a voice, per se, so much as a feather-light touch on her temples. No words or images were present, just a faint inkling that she was wanted somewhere.

It was no secret that Severus was able to summon Hermione from anywhere in the castle by calling her name aloud, but she did not know if he had realized it was not his voice but his unwitting use of Legilimency that drew her to him. It was this same ability that allowed his sleeping self to reach out to her, telling her she was wanted in a way that would appall his conscious mind.

For long moments, she resisted. Sometimes, he would give up, or his dreams would end as he slid into a deeper, dreamless sleep. The call continued, however, actually growing stronger, and with a sigh Hermione turned and streaked back towards the dungeons, regretting both her weakness and her delay in equal measures.

When she found his dreamscape, Severus was standing before her in his usual dark trousers, vest, and white shirt, a frown on his face. "I looked everywhere for you. I couldn't find you," he said, sounding confused and forlorn.

Hermione twisted her fingers in the pleats of her (for now) pale green dress. "I'm sorry," she replied at last. "I was delayed." The candor of his emotions always required a bit of adjustment when she joined his dreams, but that openness was one of the parts that most appealing.

"Well, let's get going, shall we?" he asked abruptly. One angular elbow was extended, and Hermione took it, bemused.

They were on a quest, apparently, and the landscape around them became lush and green. The grasses and wildflowers were rampant, although the sunlight was strange and pale, and the sky nearly indecipherable. A small basket appeared on his other arm, complete with shears and a damp cloth to wrap around fresh-cut greenery to keep it from wilting.

It was one of those dreams, Hermione decided a short while later. She watched as Severus combed through the meadow grasses on his hands and knees, only to dash to another site and drop to his knees once more. One of those vexing, endless quests for something you cannot find, no matter how hard you searched. She remembered vividly a recurring dream of her own, of digging frantically through her book-bag for a quill and never finding one, all the while the teacher droned on and on about something very important that was guaranteed to be on the next test.

Severus' movements were becoming more and more desperate, and a dew of perspiration appeared on his forehead as Hermione tagged along after him in this twilight meadow. It was becoming more and more difficult to keep up with his frantic pace, and finally she reached out and dragged his collection basket from his arm.

Snape lunged for it, but she danced out of his way. "What are you looking for?" she demanded.

"None of your business," he snapped, making another grab for the wicker handle.

"Tell me. I might be able to help."

A ferocious scowl crossed his face. "I need four-leafed clovers. I can never find them, and I need them for … for…" The scowl faltered as he tried to remember.

"No worries," Hermione told him lightly. Four-leaf clovers were nearly useless in potions work, but if that was what he needed, she would help him find them. "I think I saw some over here," she fibbed, concentrating on the indistinct edges of their dream reality. "See that little hollow just beyond the patch of Maiden Pinks there?"

Severus impatiently brushed the stray hair from his eyes and peered at the ground she indicated. "What of it?"

"It's full of clovers," she told him in a voice that brooked no argument. "See? Go look. There's scads of them, just waiting for you."

As predicted, the little hollow was full of absurdly robust clover, nearly all of which were four-leafed. With a glad "Aha!" Severus dropped to his knees and began to snip neat handfuls, placing them meticulously in the basket. Hermione was happy to fold her legs under her and sit amongst the wildflowers, simply observing the graceful movement of the man regardless of the circumstances.

Once the basket was full, he meticulously folded the damp cloth around the greenery. Hermione struggled not to laugh aloud as the expression on his face turned almost smug with satisfaction. The look he turned on her was just as smug, and grew even more so when he reached out a casual arm and pulled her towards him. She did giggle, then, until his mouth stopped hers with a kiss that was as warm as the sunlight should have been, and sweeter than it had any right to be.

"I can't stay, Severus. Not here, not like this," she protested, but his arms were too strong to fight against, and her own traitorous body was weak as it pushed against him.

His lips moved down the column of her throat, his deep voice murmuring against pleasure points that sent shivers up and down her body. "You said you'd be here when I needed you."

"When did I say that?" she managed to ask. Coherent speech was becoming an effort.

"Before," was all the answer she got before he claimed her mouth and kissed her thoroughly. His lips were warm and seeking, and her self-control was at an all-time low before Hermione was able to disentangle his arms from around her. Severus let out a frustrated groan as he fell back onto the crushed wildflowers, the petulant expression on his face more suitable to a Seventh Year boy.

"I do love you, Severus," she told him, even as she sat back on her heels, putting more distance between their bodies.

Somber black eyes stared straight at her, and for a moment she wondered who, exactly, she was in his dreams. Was she Hermione Granger, the student who died? Or Miss Granger, the Gryffindor ghost? She even considered, though it did nothing for her ego, that he might see her as a woman from his past or a nameless conglomeration of all the women he'd ever known. She could only be sure when he called her by name, and that did not happen with any reassuring consistency.

"I know you do," he replied soberly. She half-expected a demand that she demonstrate her affection, but to her surprise he reached out and captured one of her hands with a strong, comforting grip. "I care for you as well," he told her. "Just stay with me. That's all I ask."

Hermione nodded, and allowed him to draw her down beside him. His shoulder was lean and, in all honesty, a bit knobby, but it was still a fine pillow for her head as he gathered her next to his body and began to elaborate on the properties of four-leaf clovers.

After a while, he shifted his hold on her. Shortly after that, he began to press soft kisses against her face and neck, all the while still going on and on with interesting tidbits about the flora around them. Eventually, the kisses became longer while the talk became shorter, and when he ceased speaking at all, she did not push him away but instead welcomed him with open arms.

&&&&&

The school year started yet again, with a new crop of First Years who seemed even younger than ever to Hermione. She made friends with many of them, even the Slytherins who seemed eternally wary of all around them and associated with no one from the other houses. Her old favorites sought her out, asking how her summer had gone, and she was regaled with endless stories of family trips, sibling rivalry, and far too often references to the nearly invisible war Dumbledore sought so hard to keep away from the gates of Hogwarts.

The first signs of fall were putting a snap in the air just before dawn one morning when Snape finally returned from a summons that had caught him in mid-review of the first wave of homework assignments. As usual, Hermione waited down the hallway from the Headmaster's office, hoping to see him with her own eyes after his usual report to Dumbledore.

Eventually, just as the horizon began to glow pink through the tall mullioned windows that ran along one side of the passageway, the stone gargoyle ground around and disgorged a familiar figure still swathed in a flowing black cape. His fatigue was evident in the measured step of his black boots, but he did not hesitate as he strode along the galley towards the windows where Hermione waited.

"The Dark Lord is marshalling his forces at last," he said by way of greeting. "The date is set. 22 September."

"Are you certain?" she asked, surprised. "Not that I doubt you, but the timing seems odd. I would have thought he'd go with the traditional Halloween, rather than so soon after the school year has begun."

"There's no mistake, Hermione. The Dark Lord was absolutely clear in his orders, and he has obviously been planning this for some time. All the Death Eaters in the Ministry are ordered to create as much confusion in their various departments as possible between now and the twenty-second of September."

"Hang on. That's Mabon, isn't it?"

Severus nodded grimly. "Exactly. All symbolism aside3, a large majority of the older generation will be celebrating in one form or another. Additionally he expects Dumbledore to be absorbed with the usual chaos of a new school year."

"Then we have nineteen – no, eighteen days," she mused, falling into step with Severus as he walked along the windows. "What are you expected to do?"

"I have been ordered to brew poisons," he admitted with distaste. "Every Death Eater will need to be armed with vials of poison when they go into battle that night. I was not given the battle plan, but the Headmaster believes many of the top ranking Ministry officials will be the target of assassination that night."

"What are you planning?"

He surprised her with a rakish grin she'd seldom seen outside his dreams. "I'm strongly considering the Knightime Knockout drops. The true version, not your variation. That way anyone hit with them will be incapacitated, but not killed outright."

"That actually appeals to my warped sense of justice," Hermione told him with an answering grin. "It's too bad you can't booby-trap them, to go off when they're about to be used."

A black eyebrow rose in sardonic amusement. "How very Slytherin of you, Hermione. I'll discuss it with Flitwick – perhaps the glass can be charmed to vaporize when held in a warm hand, or the stopper dissolve or some such." He yawned suddenly, and grimaced in irritation. "Damn it all. You'd think my improved health would let me get along on less sleep, but I actually need more these days. And there's bugger all chance I'll get any sleep before my first class."

"I doubt it," Hermione told him, indicating the window with a nod of her head. "Sunrise already."

They both paused to look out over the sloping lawns of Hogwarts and the Forbidden Forest beyond, where the early morning sun was putting a razor sharp edge on every leaf and blade of grass.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Hermione commented softly. As usual, the dawning light filled her with a languid serenity. Beside her, Severus Snape gave out a huff of disdain, although he was visibly reluctant to look away from the glorious array of colors on the horizon.

"Don't be so sentimental, Miss Granger. The sun comes up every day, day in and day out."

"Are you sure?" she teased back.

"As sure as there are papers to grade and potions to make," he replied. "I dare not let the dunderheads slag off, even considering the vast amount of work that remains on the Phoenix Tears and the need for several hundred vials of Knockout drops. Will you be available to assist me on that?"

"Of course," she answered, surprised that he'd doubted it. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Severus' shoulder shifted under the black cloak he still wore. "I thought you might object to working on that particular potion," he admitted.

Knowing better than to comment on his thoughtfulness, Hermione shrugged instead. "I'll be down to help you in any way I can, Professor. Whatever you need me to do, I'll do."

The half smile on Severus' face stilled, his dark brows frowning slightly.

"Whatever…" he repeated, his focus suddenly elsewhere. His long fingers came up to rub at his temple. "What…"

A dark foreboding blossomed in Hermione's heart, and she hesitated, perhaps just one fraction of a moment too long, before she made an attempt to distract him. "You really ought to change out of those robes before the students start roaming the halls," she told him, forcing her voice into a cheerfulness she did not feel.

She might as well have said nothing; he paid no heed to her words. All his attention was on the tendril of memory that had been uncovered, and with a stubborn tenacity he pulled out of the depths of his mind and into the light.

"I've heard that before," he murmured, his voice confused and uncertain. Hermione remained absolutely still, unable to flee this moment despite all the instincts that screamed at her to escape the inevitable wrath to follow.

"A dream I had – a dream…more than once," the man mumbled. He stilled, almost motionless, before his black eyes slowly rose to meet hers, full of horror and accusation and worst of all, betrayal.

"Your voice," he declared, his voice hardening. "You, telling me that. You've been in my dreams – haven't you?"

Hermione shook her head, not in denial but in an endeavor to placate him. "Severus – I only…"

The reaction was worse than she had even imagined. His upper lip curled with pure fury, and his voice was a deadly hiss, rising quickly to an explosion of rage. "How DARE you?! How DARE you put yourself where you're not wanted? I should have known better. You and Potter, you're just the same! I should have known! I should never have trusted you!"

"You can trust me," she protested. "I never meant you any harm…"

"The motto of fools and bungler everywhere!" he shouted. "I thought it was the potion, giving me these ideas! I should have known it was some well-meaning, artless fumbling of an imbecile Gryffindor! Oh, let's take pity on poor, pathetic Professor Snape!"

"I'm not—I didn't!" she protested quickly. "I was merely there. They're your dreams. I cannot change them."

"Don't LIE to me!" he thundered. "You're very good at changing reality, or the perception of it. How do I know you're not in my mind, changing things?! Telling me I have control – of all the absurd, asinine tripe to peddle! You must have laughed yourself sick at the irony of it all!"

Before she could refute, he plowed on, spouting accusations with a viciousness Hermione could scarcely comprehend. "Did you have some other plan in mind, Miss Granger? Plant some ideas in my head? Make me fall in love with you, like some pathetic schoolboy? Or was there another plot – something you cooked up with the Headmaster, because he doesn't really trust me?"

Hermione had always known this moment was coming, but nothing had ever prepared her for the savagery of his response. Even as she argued, she knew he was not likely to believe her. "It's your mind! I can't change anything! I only suggested to you what they could be."

She held out one hand in entreaty, but Severus took a step backwards, putting the window at his back, nearly crouching as he held her at bay. "I don't believe you, Granger. You betrayed me. Betrayed my trust in you, and all because you cannot bear to leave well enough alone." His voice dropped into a seething bitterness, as cutting and spiteful as anything she'd ever experienced from him. "Cannot even death teach you to curb that damnable curiosity of yours?"

Hermione drew herself up, tamping down her anguish and distress until it wrapped her in a shield of shattered dignity. "I dared because you called me," she told him. "I tried to stay way, but you called out to me, in your sleep."

"More lies!" he spat out.

"No – the truth. Your Legilimency reaches out when you have a nightmare. I can hear it."

He sneered, but his fury seemed to pause. "And then what?"

"I can join your dreams – make them focus," she confessed. "Make them more realistic. But your mind directs them, not mine. And it's not all the time – just when you call out to me."

"You must stop," he ordered flatly, pulling his cloak around him. His simmering, barely controlled anger turning arctic in the curt, sharp tone of his voice. "Don't you ever invade my privacy again."

"I tried," Hermione told him. Even without a corporeal body, her throat was thickening with suppressed tears. "But you were in so much pain, Professor. I only…"

Severus cut her off with an abrupt sweep of his hand. "I don't ever want you to do it again, do you understand? NEVER!" His shout echoed down the hallway.

"I was trying to help you!"

"Help me?" he repeated, incredulous. The glass pane behind him cracked suddenly, and a wave of nauseatingly hot magic swept out of him.

"No one bloody asked for your help! I didn't ask you to meddle in my business! I didn't ask you to take an interest in my work! And I damned well didn't ask you to spend eternity in my bloody classroom!"

She stared at him for a moment, hardly able to believe the vehemence of his words, but there was nothing in his eyes to make her doubt or give her hope. Flat, black, and cruel, his gaze held nothing but contempt and cold hatred and pure, unrelenting fury that beat against her much like the waves of hostile magic emanating from his body.

Something inside of Hermione crumbled at that moment, gone before she could even begin to grasp its significance. In its wake, it left only despair, and an emptiness that surely would have killed her, had she been mortal. A split second later, she was a streak of gray bursting through the stone ceiling above the Potions Master and leaving behind only a chilly gust of wind in her wake.

Author's note: A huge thank you to my beta, Nancy, who helped me make this much better.

1 Tintern Abbey in Wales. Here's the link – just take out the spaces. http: www . castlewales . com / tintern . html. The Norman Fort in Wilshire is called "Old Sarum."  
2 I know it's a cheesy line, but dang it, it fits!  
3 Mabon is a Celtic holiday that has several reputed sources, including a Welsh god who is King of the Otherworld and the God of Darkness. Another associated Mabon myth involves a Welsh God Gwyn Ap Nuad, which means "white son of darkness". He is seen as the God of war and death, the patron God of fallen warriors. I can see Voldemort adopting that symbolism easily.


	12. Chapter 12

Severus Snape had long ago become accustomed to the extraordinary demands associated with his dual roles of teacher and undercover operative. He had learned to force his body to function, despite the wracking pain from either curses or the Braxdyce Syndrome, and carry on with forcing knowledge into the minds of dunderheads each day. The stimulants he had taken for so long had aided him in this, allowing him to maintain his focus and energy while ignoring the need to rest and recover.

What he had never realized, however, was how much he'd come to depend on those stimulants, and how much he'd miss them when events taxed his endurance to the limit. To be blunt: he was completely knackered.

Anger alone sustained him through most of the long, demanding day that followed his ferocious confrontation with Hermione Granger. A deep, burning anger, it simmered, just below the surface, throughout his classes and during the meals in the Great Hall. His fellow professors, not having realized how relaxed the man had been since his return to health, regarded him with equal amounts of wariness and confusion as he reverted to the bastard they all knew and avoided. The children were not so reticent; work spread quickly that Professor Snape was in rare form and handing out detentions like sherbet lemons.

Once he'd fulfilled his early patrol duties, Severus proceeded directly to his rooms, not even stopping his long-legged stalk through the halls as he deducted points from a female student who made the mistake of giggling at the same time she was within earshot of the surly professor. He paused in his private lab only long enough to locate a vial of Dreamless Sleep, then continued through to his bedroom. Although he was nearly weaving on his feet from fatigue, he had no intention of leaving himself vulnerable to the unwanted intrusions of a meddling, irresponsible ghost.

He had considered warding his rooms against supernatural intruders, but falling back on standard spells was not appealing. He resolved to create something both elaborate and fitting, such as a phantom philter trap or a mind maze that ended with a spirit bottle. Something to challenge the little know-it-all right into making a fool of herself, and then trapping her safely away from her busybody ways. Tonight, however, his body demanded sleep, and the potion would ensure he would be beyond her interference.

The following day was torturous for his students, many of whom soon realized Professor Snape was indiscriminate in his venom but preoccupied enough not to notice anyone not within his immediate vicinity. The Hufflepuffs were swift to post lookouts, but Slytherin house lost nearly a hundred points before they learned the same lesson.

Perusing the Miranda Goshawk series was futile; the textbooks only brushed over ghost and spirit manifestations, and the library carried a paltry selection on the subject. Dumbledore's notes on magical polarity, long buried on Severus' desk, had a great deal more information, however. Severus spent most of an evening poring over the research, noting references to barrier wards and trapping spells with satisfaction. The students working off their detentions had no idea what he was working on, but continued their labors in fear of drawing his attention. Severus checked their progress occasionally, but kept them all hard at it until nearly curfew time. Only when he growled at them to get out of his sight, the detainees scampered for their common rooms, giddy with relief.

Severus took the documents and a bottle of Old Ogdens to his rooms and spread the hodge-podge of information over his bed; reading as he sat propped up against the carved headboard. His wand was kept close at hand as he waited for his trespassing spirit to appear. Hermione had not shown herself for two days, now, a personal record. He was certain her Gryffindor tendencies would soon, any moment in fact, send her rushing back to the scene of the crime, desperately making another attempt to justify her actions.

It was a rude awakening in the deep hours of the night when Severus woke with a jerk, banging his head against the headboard and putting a severe crick in his neck.

The weekly staff meeting the next afternoon found him still rubbing fitfully at the long muscles at the back of his skull, attempting to massage away the bothersome ache as he stood impatiently just across from the door to the staff room. He'd long since learned that arriving late was frowned upon, as was taking the furthest chair when one was on time. Arriving early, on the other hand, and standing by the door let the others choose the cozy inner circle of chairs and left him the isolated armchair near the fireplace – just as he preferred.

The rest of the teachers seemed to be in no hurry as they straggled in, chatting with each other as if they actually enjoyed getting together to listen to each other grumble about the school and the students. If any were expecting a chorus from him, however, they were disappointed; Severus glared at the witches as they settled into their chairs, vaguely wishing for a silencing hex. Meeting attendance was compulsory, and only death, fire, or other mayhem got you out before Dumbledore was jolly well good and ready to let you escape. It was very similar to detention, except for the fact that a well-administered detention actually showed a tangible result.

&&&&&

Severus instantly noticed the spectral figure of Professor Binns as he drifted across the threshold of the room, and tapped one finger against his sleeve as the ghost slowly and methodically made his way to his customary chair. Quite possibly the only teacher who had never missed a staff meeting, the gray, boring man had become a gray, boring ghost, and his laborious ramblings during the meetings were nearly as excruciating as his classes.

The stooped, translucent figure passed the gossiping witches without notice, but when he drew even with Severus, he stopped. Severus raised one eyebrow and stared back as the ghost turned and laboriously looked Severus up and down. It was entirely possible the old spook had gone senile, he thought.

"You, sir, are an ass," Binns declared in a somber monotone.

Without another word, the history teacher resumed his progress towards his chosen spot and sat, oblivious to the reaction his words had caused. The three crones were nearly asphyxiating themselves in an attempt to stifle their giggles, while Severus scowled at all of them equally, with little effect.

By dinnertime, the encounter with Binns was fairly well forgotten. Severus, toying with his silverware as he waited for his meal to be served, consigned the incident to the pile of proof that insanity was an unexplored facet of ghost behavior. There was a desperate need for psychoanalysts in the spirit world; it was a pity more Muggle psychologists didn't become ghosts.

Sometime between his soup and main course, he noticed that someone was staring at him. His survival instinct had long ago recognized that prickly feeling between the shoulder blades, and it had saved his life on more than one occasion. Glancing surreptitiously around the Great Hall, Severus was unable to actually locate anyone, but he hadn't lived this long without being able to recognize when someone in a crowd had his person under surveillance.

The Gryffindors were oblivious, as were the Ravenclaws. The Hufflepuffs occasionally shot furtive glances his way, but it was more the sheep checking the position of the sheepdog than anyone actually regarding him with malice. That would have come from the Slytherins, but he was familiar with the older students and their current angst issues; most were under control and the house points he'd deducted earlier weren't worth the rancor he detected from that unknown observer.

Not until dinner was nearly over, the volume of student chatter rising as they finished their pudding, did Severus chance to look up into the darker recesses of the enchanted ceiling and notice the wispy forms that were not clouds. Against the starry panels, he could make out the forms of the Bloody Baron, the Gray Lady, the Fat Friar, and Nearly Headless Nick. Nick wasn't trailed by his sniveling girlfriend, for once, but the four seemed to be in earnest discussion.

As if he'd shouted out their names, the four House ghosts turned as one and looked at him. Their regard was neutral, if somewhat unnerving, but Nick was the one who suddenly made a face and then bit the pad of his thumb, waggling his fingers in Snape's general direction.

Severus blinked. He'd rather forgotten the meaning of that medieval insult, but the sentiment behind it was perfectly clear. The Hogwarts' ghosts were not pleased.

&&&&&

However much it galled him, after nearly a week of shortened sleep Severus was forced to relinquish his schemes for humiliating and punishing Hermione Granger. He'd fallen asleep each night with his wand clutched in his hand, only to wake with a pounding headache and vague memories of dreams he'd rather forget. The enticing thought of just retribution was reluctantly pushed aside as he turned his focus on the potions demanded by the Dark Lord. A phalanx of detention draftees pounded, chopped, stirred and brewed under his close supervision every night, most without a clue what they were really accomplishing, as he drove himself and his unwilling assistants hard to complete the preliminary solutions in time. Less than ten days remained before the final battle, and he could no longer afford the distraction.

His own thoughts, however, were less easy to order about than the sullen students who reported to the dungeon. Ten years – had it really been ten years? – of conversations and cooperation had been wiped away with Hermione's perfidy, and Severus found himself dwelling on those years far more than he found comfortable. The quiet evenings were the hardest, after the curfew bells had rung, and he was left alone with only himself for company. He also found his thoughts wandering when he could least afford it, and Severus dreaded the thought of being summoned by the Dark Lord before the prescribed date he'd already been given. A lapse of attention in the company of Death Eaters was a sure way to invite swift and painful punishment.

Although, he mused, being Summoned would have gotten him out of the Order of the Phoenix meeting he was currently enduring. Even a Hogwarts staff meeting was more appealing. He hadn't been in the mood for another trip to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place this Friday afternoon. The Headmaster had insisted, and like a good little spy Severus had tagged along, which was why he was sitting at the battered kitchen table without a stiff drink in his hand listening to Potter and the others pretend to be modest.

It was a mutual admiration society consisting of Harry Potter, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Nymphadora Tonks, and Remus Lupin, each doing their best to deny the credit for their brilliant idea. Severus didn't consider it brilliant, and said so in a loud, biting voice.

"You want to HEAL the Dark Lord? Are you mad?!?"

"It makes perfect sense, Severus," Shacklebolt replied reasonably. "We've been mucking about with these spells for months now. Every incantation crafted for phantoms or other creatures at the 'cold' end of the spectrum has hit a brick wall. The spell's target has either got to be non-corporeal spirit, a Dark creature, or a demon from another plane of existence. We thought we were on to something with that last one, but it was no good."

"Harry was the one who finally came up with the solution," Remus said, smiling fondly at the young man who was both student and surrogate son. "It was brilliant, really."

"It wasn't brilliant, Remus, it was just me going spare out of frustration," Harry denied, shaking his head earnestly. "It was really Snape's healing potion that made think of it."

Severus wondered if anyone would notice him being discreetly sick in the potted plant near his chair. "You cannot possibly be serious. You want to hit the most powerful wizard in known history with the Sanguis Inficere -- a Dark Arts spell designed to bring someone back from the brink of death?"

"If it works as planned, the spell will drag Voldemort back to the other end of the magical spectrum," Shacklebolt stated, confidence in his deep voice.

"At the very least," Tonks added, "changing his polar-tee that far will put the mockers on 'im throwing any spells about."

"Po-_lar_-ity," Harry corrected quietly.

"The spell you're all so glibly discussing is a ritual which requires a significant donation of life-energy," Severus pointed out sharply. "It will kill anyone who's not completely healthy, and that person will be weak and helpless for months afterwards!"

"Now, now, it's not usually fatal for a willing sacrifice," Arthur Weasley objected. "Our Charlie has already volunteered. He claims that working with dragons for all these years has made him stronger than a bug-bear." He traded a worried look with his wife, but Molly pressed her lips together in a brave, tremulous smile.

"Once Voldemort has been infused with Charlie's life force he will be physically healthier, this is true." Dumbledore looked at everyone up and down the table, but his conviction shone through his aged eyes. "It will make him completely mortal, however. And that is when we need to strike."

'We' my arse, Severus thought, observing Harry Potter closely. The young man's eyes were dark green and his gaze was on the scarred wooden trestle table before him, but the weight of all their hopes was on his young shoulders. Not so young, Severus corrected himself, remembering that the boy was twenty-seven just like Ron Weasley. Just like Hermione.

Dragging his attention back to the subject at hand, he made another attempt to derail the madness that had taken hold of the Order. "How, exactly, do you plan to do this effectively? As I recall, the spell usually requires the donor to be in close proximity to the recipient. I somehow doubt the Dark Lord will hold still while we trot Mr. Weasley out and begin chanting nonsense over him!"

Dumbledore was unfazed by his Potion Master's temper. "There are other ways, Severus. The most reliable will require your cooperation, however."

A dark glare did not stop the Headmaster, who reached for one of the pieces of parchment scattered across the table. Without a quill, he stroked his finger across the blank surface, leaving behind a rune.

"Sowelo," Dumbledore said, rather unnecessarily. The rune was part of the introductory curriculum for Ancient Runes, and one of the first sets taught in the class.

"A sigal," Severus guessed immediately.

The older wizard nodded. "Crafted in silver, by a Muggle jeweler who thinks he's creating a piece of jewelry. A tiny pin you will attach to Voldemort's hem upon your next summoning. It's light enough that he should not notice the weight, and being cast by a Muggle will keep any magical signature from attracting his notice."

The small design was innocuous on paper, but cast in precious metal it was a beacon for power; within the aura of a wizard it would draw down the power of the Sanguis Inficere like iron to a magnet. No matter how far away Charlie Weasley was from Voldemort, his spell would home in on the dark wizard like lightening to a tall tree.

"I stand by my earlier statement – you're all mad. You're willing to risk – everything – on the one chance that I'll be able to attach this to his person without his noticing?" Severus felt his jaw muscles knot with tension as he used his finely honed sarcasm to add weight to his objections. "Why don't I pin a note on his back as well, one that says 'Ask me about my halitosis...?'"

Someone down the table snickered – Tonks, most likely, but the rest of the company shifted nervously under his accusing glare.

"It won't be just one chance," Harry muttered, and immediately flinched as an anonymous foot kicked him sharply in the shins.

Severus immediately transferred his sharp glance to the Harry. "What do you mean by that? And don't tell me 'nothing,'" he snapped immediately as the younger man opened his mouth. "What – exactly – does he mean, Albus?"

The old wizard assumed a blank expression as he met Severus' dark eyes. Severus did not relent, and after a long moment Dumbledore sighed ever so slightly.

"We have another operative within the Death Eaters' ranks," he admitted heavily. "He has only recently been admitted to the circle, but he's well placed for our purposes. Voldemort has already told him to ready himself, and while he's been given no specific instructions I have every confidence he'll be summoned on Mabon night."

"With two of you, the odds of successfully planting a sigil will be much greater," Remus volunteered, but Severus scarcely heard the man. He was staring at the Headmaster in absolute horror.

"Albus – No. Please tell me it's not Draco."

A muffled sigh of regret came from Molly's direction, but all of Severus' attention was on the pity radiating from Albus Dumbledore.

"When were you going to inform me?!" he demanded, resentment rising, flooding through him. "Were you going to wait until I was Summoned, and then casually mention I'd be seeing my godson amongst the Death Eaters? Were you even going to tell me at all?"

"Now, Severus, calm yourself." Arthur Weasley made a feeble attempt to reach out towards the man, patting him gently on the shoulder, but Severus shook off the touch as though it were diseased.

"How dare you involve him in this! After all I've done to keep him out of your clutches, old man!"

Dumbledore raised one hand to forestall Severus' ranting. Respect and the habit of years were all that allowed him to keep back the torrent of objections, and although it disgusted him Severus allowed the older wizard to speak.

"Draco came to me, Severus. Through Arthur and Molly, he let me know of his desire to help our cause. I was skeptical, at first, but the young man has been sincere in his dealings with the Weasleys, especially young Ginny."

"No. Absolutely not. I forbid it!"

"Severus…"

"Draco is not to be involved in this!"

Over the babble of voices that rose up, some defending Draco, some expressing doubts on his trustworthiness, Harry Potter's voice was the only one that reached to Severus' ears.

"Professor, this isn't your decision. It's up to Draco. He swears he's doing this for reasons of his own, and they're none of my business. Personally, I think he's proving something to Ginny. But no matter why he's doing it, it's his choice."

"Just as this is your choice, Potter?" Severus retorted with a sneer. "Are you sure it's your decision to try a showdown with the Dark Lord?"

Harry's green eyes met his, and Severus was shaken to see, to feel, the absolute determination at the core of Harry Potter's mind. The Boy Who Lived was ready to meet his destiny, and to give it an unmitigated kick in the arse.

"It's my choice, Professor. It's Draco's choice, and Tonks', and Kingsley's. All of us. Even yours. We all decided to put our lives on the line when we joined the Order."

When the Potions Master made no reply Harry let out a huff of laughter. "Look at it this way, Professor. You could be right about Gryffindors and their foolish bravery. And if we all die, you can stand around and say 'I told you so.'"

&&&&&

Severus was still mulling over Harry's words when he returned to Hogwarts, slipping in one of the back entrances near the greenhouse where no late night wanderers would see him. Even though school had only been in session for two weeks, Severus could not take the chance that some eager overachiever would not be out wandering the halls, determined to be the first to be caught out after curfew.

He was vaguely disappointed to reach his rooms without encountering anyone or anything more provoking than a few mice, scurrying along the dungeon corridors in advance of the light glowing from his wand. Rather than consider that disappointment, Severus focused on the cheek of Harry Potter and their conversation after the Order meeting. A chuff of breath escaped his chest – it could not quite be called a chuckle – at the younger wizard's foolish and stalwart bravado.

The sound was followed by another convulsion in his chest. Had it emerged, it might have been a sob as he clamped down on the despair that threatened to swamp his suddenly fragile control over his emotions. The idea of facing Draco across the circle of Death Eaters left a hollow feeling within him that he'd not been forced to endure for longer than he cared to remember. Into that hollow vortex swirled all the horrors that he could imagine – watching his godson writhe under the punishments that faced the new recruits as they were bent to their master's will, or worse, Draco's composure deserting him at a crucial moment, leading to both of them being exposed as traitors to the Dark Lord.

Sheer force of will, along with a generous measure of fire whiskey, finally brought his wandering thoughts to heel. Another few fingers of whiskey later, and Severus felt nearly calm as he readied himself for the evening. The evening meal had long since been served in the Great Hall, so a quick Floo call though to the kitchen secured a plate of sandwiches from the house elves. A third tumbler went well with the food, and his usual poise had been restored by the time he finished.

As he read over his sheaf of notes, the familiar discipline restored the calm and focus in his mind. An hour after returning to Hogwarts, Severus Snape was once more the self-possessed wizard working on a difficult but not insurmountable series of problems.

He was still mulling over the conflict between what the Dark Lord had mandated, reading over some of his research, as he absently made his way to the bath to answer a call of nature. As he entered the bath and approached the toilet, fumbling one-handed at his buttons, a torrent of water exploded from the bowl.

His only consolation was the fact that he had not had a chance to avail himself of the facilities. The geyser that had been his commode a few moments earlier drenched him instantly and sent sheets of water over the walls of his bathroom. His parchments were hopelessly drenched, the ink running in black rivulets down his hand.

Sheer reflex had his wand out and a hex flying from his mouth before he had thought it through; the porcelain exploded in an arc of jagged shrapnel that fortunately went on a trajectory that did not include Snape. The water died down to a fountain that bubbled from the amputated pipes, spreading a deepening pool across the tile floor.

Drops of water streamed from Severus' hair and down his long nose. "If I'd wanted a bidet, I'd have bloody well installed one!" he shouted at the wreckage. It gurgled threateningly, and a girl's voice rose in the bubbling water, calling him something unintelligible.

All of the anger that had been simmering under the surface for the last week, all of the frustration and emotional turmoil he'd subsumed earlier suddenly boiled over, just has his toilet had.

"BARON! SHOW YOURSELF!!"

The bellow was visceral and immensely satisfying to Severus and he let loose once more as he haphazardly applied a drying charm.

"BARON!!"

He stormed through his rooms to the outer hall entrance, intent on flinging open the door with all the drama his brought to his classroom. Unfortunately, his wool trousers had taken the drying charm rather too well, and by the time he reached the door an impressive static charge had build up. The discharge as he reached for the metal doorknob snapped painfully on his fingertip, and only added to his displeasure as he threw open the door and bellowed out into the dark hallway.

"BARON!!"

"What is it, Snape?"

The voice came from behind, and Severus whirled to see his house ghost already standing inside his rooms, leaving him holding his own door open foolishly. It made a resounding crash as he slammed it shut.

"I demand you do something!"

An expression of vague interest crossed the Bloody Baron's blood hound features, but his attention slid away from his Head of House and wandered along the furnishings of the rooms as if he were considering a sub-let flat of dubious quality. An unformed hum arose from his chest as he thoughtfully sucked at a tooth.

"Did you not hear me?" Severus demanded. "I insist you do something about those…"

"Of course I heard you," the Baron interrupted. "Can hardly help hearing you, most of the time. You really are appallingly loud."

"I beg your pardon?" Severus bit out at this non sequitur.

"We can all hear you, m'boy. From the deepest dungeon to the highest tower, you have a particularly piercing summons. We just all ignore you. Wouldn't do to have us all answering just those who have the gift."

"I give a damn about who hears me and who doesn't. I want to know what you're going to do about that chit exploding my toilet. She's a menace, and she should have been drowned at birth."

"Myrtle's already dead," the Baron pointed out sensibly. "She's a bit brassed off at you, right this moment. I can't say that I blame her."

"Just because she's Granger's little friend…" he began, only to be interrupted.

"Granger? What has this to do with Granger?" The Bloody Baron waved one hand in a dismissive gesture. "I haven't spoken to Miss Granger in several evenings. No, Myrtle's bathroom has been filled with the younger girls, all bleating about you mistreating them. The older students are complaining to their Heads of House. The Slytherins aren't speaking to you, so they're coming to me, stupid little gits."

He pinned the Potions Master with a belligerent expression. "In my day, we wouldn't have gone to the heads. We would have ambushed you after class one night and stuffed you in the broom locker down at the Quidditch pitch."

"Myrtle exploded my toilet because I've made a few Hufflepuffs snivel?" Severus could not believe his ears. "If all the asinine, idiotic excuses. I always make the Hufflepuff cry. It's what I live for."

"We had thought you'd found another reason for living," the Baron retorted lightly. "You must have buggered that up, though. As I said, I haven't spoken to Miss Granger for some time. You must have finally run her off."

Severus glowered at the ghostly buccaneer. "That is none of your business."

"It is precisely my business, Snape. If you have grievance against one of my fellows, you should have come to me."

"Her offense does not concern you."

"Ah, but it does. Do you think she's the first spirit to share dreams with one of you Live Ones? Granted, the novices usually choose someone who has a legitimate claim to living, not some shriveled, bitter old man…" The Baron sighed, giving Severus a jaundiced once-over. "But you've got the Gift, so perhaps that explains it."

"Gift of what?" Severus demanded. The Baron did not answer, but touched his temple knowingly. "Legilimency?"

"Legilimency!" the Baron scoffed. "Live Ones – you always have to slap a name on something, outline it, define it. In my day, it was a wild talent, just like your pyro-thingummy.

"You have a talent for it, Snape, and nothing more. Any of you that have the Gift are easier for we spirits to hear. It was originally used for speaking to those beyond the veil, until you all got uppity and started using as you do now."

Startled and confused, Severus leaned against the back of the chair he'd sat in while sharing brandy with his godson. "Wait. Earlier. You said this has happened before. A ghost, entering a dreaming wizard's mind."

The Baron shrugged. "Happens all the time. All right, considering we don't get new spirits in these parts but once a century… about half the newcomers, I'd say. The self-centered ones, like Myrtle, they're too wrapped up within their own misery to impose themselves. The curious ones, however, like Miss Granger, can be a bit of a handful."

With a rueful chuckle, the Baron shook his head. "Miss Hermione could no more resist your calls than any of us could, in the beginning. The Gray Lady and I would have stopped her, had she done harm, or tried to possess one of the young ladies in the school – that's happened a time or two."

"Why…" Severus loathed his own voice when it stammered, and he quickly tamped down on the emotions that had swamped him earlier and were threatening to return in full force. "Why is this allowed to happen? Surely the Ministry has ways to control your kind?"

His question was a bit harsher than planned, and the Baron's demeanor grew colder. Literally, that is; the room temperature dropped a few degrees, until Severus' breath wafted white in the candlelight.

"You have no idea what it means to lose the corporeal world! Never to touch again. Never to taste. To exist only as a shadow, a reflection of what you once were… It's a trial, and it goes on for eternity.

"Spirits have been freed from the lusts of the body, Snape, but never the yearnings of their hearts. We have all succumbed to the lure of a human's dreams, at one time or another. Mostly we discourage it amongst ourselves, and almost always we stop on our own, as it is as false as leprechaun gold and lasts even less time. Yes, The Ministry has some means of control, and used it accordingly on Myrtle. Had Hermione done you any harm at all, we would have intervened.

"Miss Granger did you no harm, though. Did she?" The Baron pinned Severus with a sharp glare, and he was forced to honesty. Graciousness was not required, however, and was completely absent in his answer.

"No. She only invaded my privacy and intruded where she was not wanted."

"Wasn't wanted, eh?" The Baron snorted. "Don't fool yourself, Snape. We can all hear you at night, grizzling like a babby with a new tooth. You called her, right enough. And she answered."

"I did not call her!" Severus ground out, incensed.

"Not consciously, no. But you've been a Professor in this castle for twenty-odd years, now, and you've had nightmares nearly all that time."

"And what exactly are you implying?"

"Your head leaks, boy!" the Baron roared. "Anyone with the Gift does, when they dream. Not clearly or loudly, thanks be for small favors, or you'd have driven us all out of the castle by now."

Severus was silent, considering the information he'd just learned. He struggled not to apply this new knowledge to Hermione's actions, but his own innate logic forced him to accept the truth. The Baron, a true Slytherin, let him wallow in his own remorse for several long minutes.

"The girl was following her heart, and a good heart it is, too. She has done nothing to injure you, and a great deal that deserves your thanks instead of your condemnation."

He glowered at his house ghost from under lowered eyelids. Self-castigation was one thing, but Severus neither needed nor welcomed any contribution from the Baron.

"I will apologize," he retorted stiffly. "I understand my error," he added, all but spitting the words out in flat tones.

"No, I don't think you do," the Baron replied quietly. "Have you never wondered why the girl stayed in the first place?"

Severus frowned, but the ghost continued speaking in a deathly serious voice. "I wasn't about the castle, the day Hermione Granger died. But I was informed that you had tried to save her. I saw your grief, afterwards, just as those boys did. And every spirit in the castle could hear your Gift calling, like a howl in the wilderness.

"It wasn't much of a surprise when Miss Hermione came back, my boy. Even if the girl didn't care for you at all, she would have come back. She's like that, after all. She likes to be helpful. Useful. Needed," the Baron added. "She stayed because of you, Severus Snape. You think of that, the next time you take it in your head to shout at her."

Severus barely noticed when the Baron strode off, walking through his stone wall like a curtain of mist. Neither did he notice that the temperature in the room had recovered from the chill of the ghost's earlier snit. All his thoughts, all of his emotions, were focused solely on the young woman who had spent ten years in his dungeons. She had become a fixture in his life, somehow. The notion that he was somehow responsible for her staying on this plane of existence, when she so patently deserved another, was so painful that even the movement of his breathing caused agony to cascade through his body.

Surely the Baron was mistaken. There was no reason that Hermione Granger would have remained on this earthly coil when another, better place awaited her. His feelings, no matter how obvious to those who could hear, would never have influenced a student to whom he'd never been kind.

Unable to keep a consistent argument in his head to refute the Baron's words, Severus drifted into his wingback chair and let his thoughts spin round without attempting to form them into a coherent whole. Mostly they consisted of memories of Hermione, the hours spent together in his lab, the small arguments and comfortable silences they'd shared in a decade of each other's forced company.

When his left arm flared in pain, summoning him to the Dark Lord's circle, it was nearly a relief.

&&&&&

In theory, time was meaningless to a ghost; they were eternal and unchanging. Death had removed Hermione Granger from the relentless cycles of nature and placed her outside the dangerous rapids of life that buffeted mere mortals. She had died, and being dead, she was scarcely aware of the changing seasons while year turned to year.

The last six days, however, had been a torturous hell she had thought reserved for those souls who had passed through the curtain she had neglected to enter. Gossip in the halls, from the students and the portraits and the other ghosts, brought her information she wasn't at all sure she wanted to know. She knew that Severus Snape had been in what might generously be called a snit; even Slytherin had not been exempt from the absolute hailstorms of detentions that had plagued all four houses. If nothing else, she could be sure Severus had enough hands to cut up ingredients and prepare the potion bases he needed.

The first rays of the sun were just beginning to lighten the eastern horizon, easily visible from Hermione's nook at the top of the staircase, when the staircase below rumbled and moved into position. She paid it little attention, though, as the stairways often began moving as the castle occupants came awake. Each dawn brought the final battle closer, and the tension that mounted as she counted down the days would have killed her if she hadn't been dead already. As it was, she could only wait, and worry, and, while she had lost nearly all her religious convictions after her own death, pray for those whom she loved most.

The soft scrape of a boot sole against the dust on the landing did catch her attention, and her curiosity. Not once, in all the time she'd haunted the highest vantage point in the castle, had anyone ventured up this far. She turned away from the window, guessing that Harry Potter was making one of his infrequent visits to the castle and sought her out. He usually made a point to speak to her whenever he came to Hogwarts.

The man who appeared was not Harry Potter. He still wore the enveloping black robes of a Death Eater, and one side pocket swung heavily with the weight of the silver mask.

"Hermione," was all Severus said.

Her voice rasped ever so slightly as she acknowledged him. "Professor. I didn't know you had been summoned again."

He did not respond immediately, though one shoulder lifted in a weary shrug. As reluctant as she was to provoke his temper, she was prompted to ask him, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." His ebony eyes lifted to meet hers and seemed to stare straight through her. "I wanted to talk to you."

Even without the need to breathe, the urge to sigh was unavoidable. "Is there anything left to say?" she asked rhetorically. "I offended you, and I overstepped all bounds of acceptable behavior for a ghost. You'd be perfectly within your rights to have me exorcised. At the very least you're within your rights to speak to the Baron about having me censured."

"I did had a word, with the Baron," Severus admitted. "He had quite a bit to say."

"Did he tell you he warned me to stay away from you?"

He seemed startled by that, but shook his head. "No."

Hermione took a moment to look the subdued man over, and was not happy with what she saw. "You look like hell," she said baldly.

"That sounds like something Albus would say. Has said, though not in so many words."

The words stuck in her throat, but she forced them out anyway. "You should get some rest. There's not much time left."

"I know," he said softly. "I've tried to sleep. I can't."

She raised one eyebrow at him, and the corner of his mouth twitched in self-mocking humor.

"After that day we quarreled, I stayed awake all the next night. I was sure you'd come back, wanting to make amends. You never came back."

Hermione lifted her chin. She had only a little pride left when it came to this man, but it remained at the core of what she was. "I understood that I'm not welcome, Professor. You made it quite clear."

His dark head nodded, as if in agreement. "You haven't come back to the dungeons at all, have you? Not once. I can feel your absence."

"You've been shouting at me for years to leave you alone. Now I have."

Uncharacteristically, Severus shifted his weight and peered up at Hermione's translucent gray form where she hovered above him. "I only intended… my privacy has always been sacred to me, Hermione. I never meant that I did not want your presence."

A flash of pain and outrage swept through Hermione at those words. "My presence is welcome, Professor? Or just my labors? You've never valued either, so I'll make it easier for you, and stay completely out of your way."

With a self-righteous huff she turned towards the farthest corner from the dawn light coming through the windows, her form drifting down and away as she began to fade from view.

"Hermione – wait! Please. Wait."

Reluctantly Hermione paused and became a bit more visible, although she remained half in and half out of the solid stone wall. With an audible inhale of air, the Potions Master sank down on the small wooden bench to one side of her little sanctuary. His black hair, disordered and looking in need of a wash, moved in lank hanks over shoulders as he rubbed his tired face and leaned his elbows onto his knees.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Pure shock kept her silent, and he filled the awkward silence with an outpouring of honesty that was a blend of confession and an exhausted ramble. "I took a Dreamless sleep potion the night after we argued. I didn't trust you.

"The next night – I waited. I thought you'd come. When I did finally sleep, I kept dreaming the same thing. I was searching for something. Every night, for the last ten or so days… I search for something I cannot find. I run, or dig, or climb endless towers, looking for it. I call, and call, but it never appears. I never find it."

"I've felt you, calling me," she told him in a small, bitter voice. "I stayed away, as you asked."

"I don't want you to stay away," he admitted roughly. "I should have admitted it when the nightmares began again. Last night, when I was summoned, I half expected you to be there in my rooms, telling me to be careful. And I knew you wouldn't be waiting for me to come back."

"I don't understand. I thought you were angry with me."

"Angry," he scoffed. His voice was full of pain, as were his eyes when he opened them again. His next words were pulled from him reluctantly.

"I've given up," he said simply. "I can't find what I'm looking for, because you're not there any more. Last night, standing in the Dark Lord's presence, I should have been listening, but instead I squandered the time trying to remember where what you said you did with yourself when you weren't with me. Appalling, isn't it? Nothing came to mind. Just the time we've spent together, side by side. The things you've said. Your focus and drive and your amazing, able mind. Not even death was able to stop you from accomplishing the things you wanted."

Slowly, hesitantly, Hermione drifted down to the floor level, barely even daring to consider what, exactly, the exhausted man in front of her was saying. His eyes were black and glittered with emotion that she never expected, never even dared to hope even after admitting to herself that she loved him. His sincerity was apparent in his face, and even more so when he reached out one hand to her.

"I can only find it here, Hermione. With you."

Hermione stared at the outstretched hand with consternation. "Severus, I can't touch you," she told him, her own voice cracking with emotion.

"Take my hand," he commanded, in a voice that brooked no argument. Longing and fear warred with each other until courage overrode all, and she reached across the small distance between them and wrapped her fingers around his. The heat of his living flesh was searing, and she knew her own was devastatingly cold to him, but they both carefully grasped the semi-solid reality of each other as fully as they could.

Severus drew himself up to his full height, austere and formal. "I do not wish to be without your company, Hermione Granger. It's far too lonely in the dungeons, and that is something I thought I'd never say."

"I've missed you, Severus," she confessed. "You've no idea how hard it's been to be without you."

A rare smile crossed his face. "I have some idea, I believe." He dropped his hand from hers, fingers blue with cold. "If we only had more time, I would have liked to find a way to make it up to you." He resumed his seat on the bench, weariness once more settling on his shoulders.

"Unfortunately, we have only six days left until Mabon night. The entire Order is making plans for battle, although secrecy is the utmost importance until that day. After the battle…I expect we'll have more time to talk, then."

Hermione agreed and moved over to join him, settling on the far end of the bench where the sunlight was not so painfully bright. Their relationship could not be mended in the short time they had available to them, and the looming battle was more important than any misunderstanding, no matter how devastating.

"Have they a plan, then?"

"Only the optimistically deluded would call this a plan," Severus observed dryly. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the rune sigal Dumbledore had given him just a short time earlier, when he'd returned from the Dark Lord's summons.

In broad terms, he outlined the intention to drag Voldemort back towards the mortal end of the magical spectrum, with the intention that he would then be more vulnerable to standard spells.

"And this little pin is part of the plan?" she questioned in disbelief. "Are they mad?"

"Those were my thoughts exactly. And to make it worse, they've dragged my godson into their foolishness."

Hermione shot him a look of exasperated patience. "Severus, I realize Ancient Runes never held your fascination, but do you mean to tell me you've never really looked at Harry's scar?"

"It's a lightning bolt shape. Jagged, red, and hardly remarkable."

"That's what Dumbledore's been saying for years – other than the unremarkable bit. But you've obviously never looked at his reflection in the mirror."

Familiar patterns of conversation fell into place, and Severus made no effort to stifle his sarcasm. "I've never gossiped with him in the loo, if that's what you're implying."

Another irritated look was thrown his way before Hermione leaned over and blew gently onto the dark stone wall between them. A sheet of frost obligingly formed, thick and white.

"Write the Sowelo rune," she commanded. Realizing the futility of argument, Severus did as he was bid and used his finger to scrape the jagged backwards 'Z' shape.

"And Harry's scar looks like this," she continued, and ran her finger over the wall next to the frosty circle, much as Dumbledore's finger had written on parchment the night before. Her finger left behind a line of white frost, this time in the lightning bolt shape that graced Harry Potter's forehead. The two marks were exact mirror images of each other.

"Don't you see? This is the key. Harry was marked as Voldemort's equal. His scar is a reflection of the Sowelo rune, and when Charlie Weasley enacts his spell, Harry will be part of that energy connection.

"I've heard all the stories that Tom Riddle spent years putting all sorts of enchantments on himself, to make himself immortal. One of the ways to link your physical self to magic is to have the spell actually tattooed on your body. Like the Dark Mark. Sirius Black had tattoos on his chest, and I remember wondering about that when we were at Grimmauld Place, so I went and looked it up. If I were going to make myself immortal, I can imagine spells, runes, being tattooed all over…"

"And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…." Severus quoted, his voice almost gravelly with shock.

"And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives," Hermione finished quoting the prophecy. In contrast, her voice had taken on the excited edge that always accompanied her incredible leaps of logic.

"Positive and negative electricity cannot meet without shorting out or causing sparks to fly. But if you put something in the circuit, to control the flow –"

"Charlie Weasley –"

"Will be creating a power circuit on the battlefield, but it's going to include Harry as well as Voldemort. And if Dumbledore isn't already aware of this possibility, I'm the bloody Queen of May."

"Of course he is, the old sod. He's going to be on the battlefield, next to Harry. I'd lay odds he's expecting this."

"You're going to need something in the circuit that can control that much power."

"And if we can channel it to Potter, away from the Dark Lord… we have to talk to Dumbledore." He rose in a swirl of black and strode impatiently for the staircase. "Well, woman? Are you coming with me?"

"To the Headmaster's office, or the dungeons? You need to change," she reminded him.

"Both," he declared, then faltered. "Hermione, I want you to come back to the dungeons – but only the dungeons. For now," he added quickly. "Don't think I don't want --" his usual facility with words failed him suddenly, and a faint touch of color appeared on his cheekbones. He took a breath, and continued.

"As the appellation of 'greasy git' no longer applies to me, it is expected the students will likely begin to refer to me as a lazy git. It's not often a middle-aged professor spends all of his spare time pottering about in his lab and sleeping."

His black eyes burned with an intense fire, and a promise. "But I cannot afford the distraction now, Hermione. Every last effort must be made in the effort to defeat the Dark Lord, and I won't falter now, not when we're so close."

"I understand, Severus. I even agree, believe it or not. And when the war is over?"

His smile was slow to grow, but revealed the same delight and roguish charm Hermione had, up until this point, seen only in his dreams. "Then we will dream – together."


	13. Chapter 13

"We've done it! Do you hear me, you miserable old bat? We've done it! Voldemort is gone, forever!"

Flat on his back, Severus Snape struggled to open his eyes. When he succeeded, he could just make out Harry Potter's face, exultant despite the blood and dirt covering most of it. Fires in the distance lent an otherworldly glow to Harry's profile and to the figures moving hurriedly about, some assisting limping comrades to medical help, others lying motionless on the ground or moaning softly in pain.

Overhead the stars burned a brilliant white in the deep black sky, cold and serene and untouched by the epic battle that had just put an end to a horrendous war. Some corner of his mind wondered, just for a moment, whether Mars was bright tonight.

"Good," he managed, blood bubbling in his mouth. His lips were lacerated and swollen over the broken teeth, and the pain blossomed anew as he coughed weakly.

Nearby, he could hear Draco, talking brokenly and somewhat incoherently to Ginny Weasley. He was proposing marriage, somewhat desperately, for the sixth time. Ginny was accepting yet again, and urging him to hold still until the mediwitch could get around to look at his badly broken leg. Her voice was gentle as she scolded him for moving, and Severus could detect the devotion the young woman had for his godson. The boy was in good hands.

Harry glanced up at the ministry medi-witch performing triage on the nearby wounded.

"We need some Phoenix Tears potion over here!"

Silently the witch held up an empty vial, the last one in her possession. Not even a drop remained in the bottom; she'd even fed the rinse water from the vial to an earlier patient. Snape had been brought a short time later in by the medics scouring the battlefield for survivors, and a hurried examination had told her the man was beyond the reach of any medi-wizard's skill. She shook her head sadly, denying that she could do anything.

Harry swore. "Come on, Snape," he demanded, pulling on the bloodstained robes to find the pockets full of surprises he knew the professor usually carried on him. "Tell me you've got some hidden away here."

A horrid ropy cough broke from the wizard on the ground. "Harry," Snape rasped, reaching out one hand and grabbing the younger man's shirt with what strength he had left. "Let me die at Hogwarts, Potter. I want to die at home."

Harry Potter swallowed heavily, the utter waste and irony of the moment leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Adrenaline had carried him through the evening, fueled his concentration and allowed him to harness the tremendous energy released during the Sanguis Inficere spell. Now, that energy was ebbing fast, and as it faded the true reality of the battle crept in. Fatigue, and pain, and the appalling carnage around him washed away any remaining euphoria at his victory, leaving only regret and an overwhelming emptiness.

That emptiness would be filled by his friends, he knew from experience; Ron and Moira and their new child, even Ginny and Malfoy would help fill his life again once things returned to normal. But for Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master of Hogwarts and the man who had earned his grudging respect, there would be no similar recovery.

"I understand, Professor," he told the dying man. Hogwarts had been more of a home to Harry that Privet Drive had ever been. It was no surprise that Snape should feel the same way. "I'll see to it."

A quiet word to the medi-witch summoned an Auror, one of the walking wounded, who agreed to honor Snape's last request. The unknown Auror managed to tandem-Apparate Severus' stretcher to Hogwarts' front gate. With care he levitated the nearly unconscious man through the damp, pre-dawn air, up the gravel drive and finally to the massive double doors of the castle, which opened without argument. Once inside, he called out a cautious hello to the apparently deserted school, unsure what he should do next or if there was even someone there to hear him. The children had all been given Portkeys to their homes when the Order had been summoned to the battlefield, and most of the teachers had gone.

"How did we do?" asked a contralto voice, and he whirled to see one of the ghosts of Hogwarts hovering in the air above him.

"We did well, Lady," he answered respectfully. He didn't remember this particular ghost from his own days at the school, but ghosts had always made him a bit nervous. "Harry Potter has triumphed over Voldemort. The war is over, but we've lost a lot of good people. Professor Snape - he's in a bad way. He wanted to come back here."

The ghost bit her translucent lip for a moment before smiling slightly. "I see. Please - bring him into the Hall."

The large doors into the Great Hall opened as the ghost drifted towards them, and the Auror obediently sent the stretcher after her and let it settle on the flagstones before the High Table's dais.

"Thank you for bringing him home," the ghost told him. The Auror was smart enough to recognize a dismissal and made a hasty retreat, eager to return to his own family. The ghost settled beside the stretcher, gazing down at Severus Snape. To her surprise, his eyelids fluttered open.

"Hermione?" he croaked.

"I'm here, Severus," she told him. Silver trails began to make their way down her cheeks as she wept, but her voice remained steady. "You're here," she elaborated. "You're home."

"Home," he repeated, swallowing. More blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. "We did it."

"You did. All of you."

"We beat him, Hermione. We beat Voldemort." For the first time in over twenty years, he spoke the name of his defeated master.

"I know, Severus. Hush now. You've done it, love. You've done everything you need to do."

"Have I?" he questioned, his voice going thin. His black eyes, although they were losing focus, were still sharp enough to see the crystal tears dripping off her chin. "You're crying."

Hermione sniffed and forced a watery smile to her lips. "They're tears of joy, Severus. I'm happy for you. You've done everything you thought you needed to do, and more. You see?" Hermione tilted her head back to look up at the ceiling of the Great Hall, turning gold and blue and red as it mirrored the rising sun outside. "It's a new day for the wizarding world, Severus. Because of you."

"Me," he repeated numbly. Abruptly his eyes sharpened, and his hand rose and reached out to touch her ghostly cheek. "Don't cry for me, beloved. The last thing Hogwarts needs is another wailing ghost."

"I won't," she promised. Her hands took his, and his human fingers were barely warm within her grasp.

A faint smile crossed his blue lips, and then his hand sagged limply to the hard flagstones.

Hermione waited, watching his still chest. The hall was utterly silent, save for the barely audible creaking as the morning sun fell down on the space and warmed the waxed and polished tables. The entire space seemed to be holding its breath, waiting.

"It's no use," came a dark, sad voice from behind her, and Hermione turned to see the Bloody Baron staring at her with a look of compassion in his eyes. His broad hat was in his hands out of respect, and the smoky feather wafted in the early morning light as he gestured towards the dead man on the floor.

"I waited – for days, I think – when my wife died. I have no doubt her soul went to heaven, for she was an angel in my eyes. But for the likes of you and I, that way is closed to us forever. It is not given to our kind to see the path that we did not choose. That is why I warned you, years ago. Caring for a live one will only bring you pain.

"Come away, my dear. Stay with our kind, and forget the ways of the living."

Kneeling beside his body, Hermione waited for something to prove the Baron wrong. Every movie she'd ever seen, every story she'd ever read, ended with the worthy soul being taken to the afterlife in a wash of golden light. If she could not be with him, then it would have been enough to know he'd gone to a just beyond.

No light appeared, however, and while the Baron waited patiently, Hermione choked back her tears and fumbled for the handkerchief that appeared in her pocket when it was needed. When she'd dried her tears, she leaned over, kissed Severus Snape's cold forehead. Then she rose, taking the Baron's arm and let him lead her where he would.

&&&&&

It was Argus Filch who made the arrangements for the burial later that same day, when a bright morning turned into a gusty and cold evening, and if his actions seemed hasty it was understandable in the aftermath of the Final Battle. The Ministry was in turmoil and the population only barely beginning to understand that the ramifications of the victory. Nevertheless, a handful of folk from the village stood vigil with the seedy caretaker as the body was lowered into the ground in a hastily procured coffin. A few witnesses were heard to mutter that a hero like Severus Snape, who had stood shoulder to shoulder with the Boy Who Lived, should have a better funeral. Someone else pointed out that there were heroes being buried all over England, these last few days. What was one more or less?

In their haste to deal with everything, no one remembered to mark Snape's final resting place, which was quickly covered with weeds and blown autumn leaves. And in the end, it did not matter, since no one ever came to visit the grave. Draco Malfoy appeared once, stumping down the hill on the ebony and silver cane his father had used for effect. He needed it in fact, but the sharp tip bit into the ground and left him with no support. Ginny Weasley talked him into returning home before he had been able to search more than a small part of the graveyard, and he was unable to locate the grave.

He and his quasi-brother in law Harry Potter made a pact to find it, during a late night drinking binge, and that did more to cement their budding truce-cum-friendship that anything they'd done together during the war. Ginny Weasley was proud of them both, and let them each know it, although Harry only received a kiss on the cheek while Draco received a much warmer gesture of approval.

As the days after Severus' death passed, Hermione kept herself busy rather than think about the great gaping wound that had been left in her heart when Severus died. She helped corral Peeves who, in the absence of all the school's professors, had taken to pushing over the suits of armor and causing as much mayhem as possible. She chatted with house-elves, who were understandably distressed at not having even the bare minimum staff to cook for and take care of. She also made sure the owls all got their exercise, shooing even the big horned owl (who was the laziest bird ever seen in the owlery) out into the night. The Baron tutted at her fondly for involving herself with the Live Ones again, but made no effort to dissuade her.

When the other ghosts invited her to go on a haunting expedition with them, Hermione went along without argument. She even went to a headless polo match with Myrtle and Sir Nicholas, and pretended to cheer for their favorite team. They lost.

The one thing she did not do was what she longed to - to fling herself on a weedy mound in the graveyard and weep until the notorious Shrieking Shack was a forgotten footnote compared to the noises coming from the Hogsmeade cemetery. But she had made a promise and she would keep it, despite the pain. He would have done, had done, no less for her.

She found herself longing for the return of the students, even though that would mean a new potions professor would be taking up residence in the dungeons. In preparation, she made a list of things to discuss with the new instructor when one was selected – she would not stand for the quality of teaching to devolve into the farce that was the Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

A few days later Percy Weasley, sent by the Ministry, appeared as well to assist with the preparations. He was as pompous and nit-picky as ever, but his gifts for organization and details gave them all hope of having things straightened out in time for the students to arrive on November first. He welcomed any help Hermione could give him, and she stayed at his side as he worked late into the night, sending out teacher recruitment letters and finding the lesson plans for the teachers who had perished. To her surprise, Dumbledore had suggested she teach the first, second, and third year potions students.

"Me?" she echoed, as Percy read the relevant portion of the Headmaster's letter to her.

"Why not?" Percy asked. "Binns has been boring the daylights out of students for decades. You're eminently qualified, according to Albus. There aren't any incantations needed for the lower form classes, and they'll certainly pay attention to your lessons when you tell them you died from a bad potion."

Hermione chose to overlook Percy's overly familiar use of the Headmaster's first name and considered his proposition. The lesson plans found in Professor Snape's desk were comprehensive enough for any fool to follow, and Hermione could almost imagine him saying as such as she paged through the meticulously written parchments. She tentatively agreed, reserving her full acceptance until she could speak to the new Potions professor.

The other professors began straggling back to the castle, cleaning up their clutter and readying their lesson plans, all woefully off track after the final battle. Minerva McGonagall arrived as well, carrying reams of parchment and more instructions from the Headmaster. Dumbledore himself would not be returning, and Minerva had no intention of leaving his side for any longer than necessary. They were determined that the school be back in session as soon as possible so that the children would not be too far behind when the Christmas holiday came around.

To her own surprise, Hermione found herself haunting the little room at the top of the staircase at night. The private potions laboratory was too painful to spend much time in, and she could not bear to be in Severus' rooms at all. She resolved to gather all her sentimentality for the classroom itself, and keep her mourning for the tower where she and Severus had finally been honest with each other. Eventually she would remember only the joy of being with him, and cease to dwell on the eternity she would spend without him.

At least, that's what she told herself, and after all, she had all of eternity to convince herself. Cold comfort was all she really found in the tower room, but it was comfort enough to allow her to get through each turning of the day, from dawn to dusk. It was while she was returning from one of these melancholy reflective periods that Myrtle and Sir Nicholas swept past her, calling out, "Have you heard?"

"Heard what?" she replied, but they were gone in a flash. It was game night, and they had their matching team scarves on. Polo matches started precisely at midnight, and the couple simply hated to miss the first head toss.

Hermione could only suppose that a new Headmaster had been selected. For lack of anything better to do, she drifted towards the gargoyle and spiral stairs that led to the Headmaster's office. If Percy was not there, and considering the hour she doubted he would be, she could always poke about and see if she could be of any assistance to the never-ending pile of work on the desk.

Nodding absently to the portraits who waved from the wall of the Headmaster's office, she settled at the wide desk covered with stacks of parchment and was quickly engrossed in the endless details that needed resolving.

At first Hermione did not pay any particular attention to the tall form striding into the room, other than thinking the night had passed more quickly than she had expected. Percy Weasley was known for being an early riser and working hard – to be honest, he was more transparent than her fellow ghosts when it came to his secret desire to be named the new Headmaster. Flitwick had made it clear he didn't want the position, and despite his lack of personality Percy Weasley was an adequate administrator. There were worse candidates for the position.

It wasn't until the individual tried to perch on the edge of the Headmaster's desk that she realized not only could he see her in her current invisible state, but also he was having trouble perching his behind on the mahogany surface. Percy also wasn't known for coming into 'his' office to work in his shirtsleeves. Hermione gave a dubious glance to the plain black trousers, vest, and rolled-up sleeves before it dawned on her that she could see through them. And the person wearing them.

"Where the devil have you been?" Severus demanded. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

Gone were the sweeping professorial robes he'd worn like armor for twenty-five years, replaced by his favorite working clothes; trousers, a white shirt, and his black vest. His hair wafted about his face in translucent black wings, framing features that were no longer drawn with fatigue and stress. He looked to be anywhere between thirty or forty; mature but not as old as he'd been when he had died.

"Severus?" she questioned. "Is it really... It's you. It's really you!"

"Apparently, yes, it's me," he replied waspishly. "Who were you expecting, the ghost of Christmas Past?"

Torn between laughing and weeping, Hermione threw herself across the desk and into his arms. He caught her gladly and held her close as she gasped and clutched at his shoulders. Under her hands, she could feel the solid, cold frame of his biceps and the soft whisper of his fine linen shirt.

"You're real. You're here!"

"As real as any ghost, I suppose." His hand rose towards her face, and for the first time, she felt the caress of his palm against her cheek. "I'm sorry I'm late."

"How?" was all Hermione could think to say. "I don't understand."

"You were wrong," he told her gravely. "I wasn't done. I still had one piece of unfinished business."

Her eyes, shining with tears of joy, rose to his, questioning. His answer was to bend his dark head to hers and kiss her gently.

&&&&&

For many years afterwards, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was served by Headmasters, Prefects, and Professors alike, some more ably than others, in the duties of educating the latest generations of young witches and wizards. Among those duties, the nightly hall patrol was no more or less an important part.

Those individuals assigned would wander the darkened hallways of the school, intent on catching mischief-makers, night-wanderers, and those students whose romantic inclinations took them out of their houses after curfew. And many, many times, those vigilant folk would come across a pair of lovers snogging in some out-of-the-way spot.

The usual announcement regarding the loss of house points would quickly turn into a bloodcurdling shriek of surprise as the supposed 'students' would rise into the air and answer back, the man usually issuing a scathing remark, the woman giggling an apology for frightening them. The pair would swirl around and past the astonished person, hand in hand, their merry laughter echoing down the dark corridors forever after.

Fin

Author's notes:

#1. If you didn't see that coming, you need to turn in your Hopeless Romantic Guild card.

#2. Hugs to Eloisa, who gave me the 'Ask me about my halitosis' joke.

#3. The Sowelo rune, according to my sources, indicates the sun, sudden changes for the better, and 'abundant energy and strength.' When cast in divination, it indicates victory.

And last, but certainly not least, This chapter is dedicated to the Memory of Moira, our beloved Moise, who unexpectedly left this world December 19, 2004. She will be greatly missed.


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